


The (Unexpected) Return

by ProbablyImpossible



Category: Forever (TV), Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: AU, Crossover, Gen, Modern Era, Murder Mystery, Some Humor, Time Travel, very slow buildup to Jenry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-03-22 04:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13756677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProbablyImpossible/pseuds/ProbablyImpossible
Summary: Henry Morgan has had many strange experiences in his long life. But even he never expected a case involving an old sailing ship to reunite him with someone he thought was lost forever. Similarly, Horatio Hornblower never imagined death could result in time travelling and awkward family reunions. Either way, Jo's gonna need a stiff drink.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic takes some liberties with the timeline of Forever - specifically, Henry is older than he should be canonically. Just roll with it, please.

_\- - July 4th, 2015 - -_

It was a deliciously cool midsummer's day in New York, and the open windows of Abe's Antiques allowed a light breeze to flow through the shop, otherwise closed for the holiday. Three people sat inside, sipping at tall glasses of lemonade and leaning back in antique wooden chairs while a smooth jazz track played from a well-used Victrola.

Jo paused for a moment to listen to the music. "I thought you weren't a fan of jazz, Henry?"

Henry Morgan cast an irked glance towards the older man on his right, though the frown was belied by the smile in his eyes. "I'm not. This is from Abe's collection."

"I'm weaning him onto it," Abe said, grinning. "Only taken fifty years so far."

Jo rested her elbows on her knees and shook her head. "I know it's been a while since you told me, but sometimes I still have a hard time believing it."

Henry raised an eyebrow, giving her a soft smile. "That I'm immortal."

Jo returned the expression. "Yeah."

After an… interesting series of events involving an ancient Roman dagger and a homicidal maniac, Henry had finally opened up and told her the truth about himself. Namely, that he was an immortal who never aged and who woke up naked in the nearest body of water every time he died. The news had, admittedly, been a bit of a shock. But all the evidence pointed to it being the truth, and she _was_ a detective. She straightened up. "Though it's surprisingly less difficult to believe that Abe's your son."

Abe, who had a wide, expressive face and was rapidly approaching seventy, leaned in towards Henry as if to offer up his own features for comparison with the other man's classical, eternally-thirty-five visage. "Must be the family resemblance."

Henry chuckled at that, and Jo couldn't resist a grin. Her M.E. turned partner seemed to be in a good mood; maybe she could wrangle some details of his personal life out of him. He'd been a closed book practically the whole time she'd known him, she reflected, so it was only fair. "Did you ever have any kids of your own?" She grimaced. "Not that Abe's not… that came out wrong…"

Abe waved it off, leaning back in his chair. Henry seemed to be taking the question with a much less blasé attitude, though he was trying to appear unaffected. "Just one," he said, tracing the rim of his glass with the tip of his finger. "From my first marriage. Before my curse."

Jo tilted her head slightly. "You mean Nora? The b- witch?"

Henry smiled wryly at her poor save. "No. Before her, even." He leaned back and crossed his legs, preparing for what was bound to be a long story. It always was with Henry. "My first marriage," he said, "was to a young woman - well, we were both young. I was… eighteen, I believe. Her name was Emily, and we had a whirlwind romance if ever there was one. Our son was born that same year. On this very date, actually, in 1776."

Jo grinned. "The child of the most British person I know, born on the most patriotic day in American history."

"It wasn’t intentional, I assure you," Henry said. "And I'm fairly certain I'm the _only_ British person you know."

Jo was still grinning at him. "Please, continue."

Henry rolled his eyes, but complied. "That was all after I'd fought with my father. I was so angry with him that I actually took my wife's name. I was living in Kent as a country doctor, making enough for us to live comfortably, but not much more than that." He paused. "Emily died of consumption - err, tuberculosis when our son was eight. Two years later I married Nora, and he never forgave me. By the time he turned seventeen, finances were so tight that I had to send him out on his own. I'm not sure he ever forgave me for that, either. My first death happened a few months after I last saw him." He was gripping his glass tightly now and staring at his shoes. "What with being trapped in Bedlam, then jail… I never got the chance to see him again."

"Oh…" Jo bit her lip, and without thinking reached out her hand towards him, the idea of pulling him close and cuddling him flitting through her mind. Surprised at herself, she drew her hand back. But Abe had seen her make the gesture and was now watching with an almost anticipatory look in his eye. She settled for an awkward pat on Henry's knee, which caused him to look up in surprise and her to shrink back into her chair. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

Henry looked at her silently for a few moments. Then he sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "Well, it was all quite a long time ago." He glanced up at one of the shop's many grandfather clocks. "It's almost noon. Are you hungry?"

Jo smiled. If Henry wanted to change the subject, she'd let him. "I will be if this means it's finally time for Abe to start making this amazing barbecue you've been telling me about."

Abe stood up and rubbed his hands. "Oh, you won't be disappointed! If I do say so myself." He turned and headed for the stairs at the back of the shop.

Jo stood up and was about to follow him, when her phone rang. Seeing the number belonged to Hanson, she shot Henry an apologetic look and answered. "What's up?"

"Sorry to interrupt your day off," Hanson said, not sounding very sorry. "But we've got a weird one here."

"You need Henry."

"Right."

Jo sighed. "Alright, what've you got?" She listened as Hanson tried to explain the situation, then cupped her hand over the phone and turned to Henry. "Headless vic on 12th Avenue, near that new museum ship on Pier 80." She tried to remain poker-faced despite how clearly interesting this particular set of facts sounded. "It's your day off, you don't need to hold Mike's hand."

Henry appeared to be lost in thought. "Headless, you say? Rather unusual…" He glanced up at Abe. "...Though I'm sure Detective Hanson does indeed have the matter well under control."

Abe shrugged, smiling. "Food will still be here when you get back. Just make sure you tell me all about it, 'cause I have to admit I'm intrigued."

Henry looked like he was about to make a half-hearted protest, so Jo nudged him towards the door. "Thanks, Abe. We'll take my car."

The two of them left the shop, but not before Henry could grab a light scarf off the coat rack near the door.

* * *

_\- - January 12th, 1858 - -_

Horatio Hornblower was getting tired of waiting for death.

He hated this, all of it; being confined to his bed, feeble, his mind slipping away from him. His pride, the only thing he had left, made it worse than torture. He never thought he would live this long anyway, and was disgusted with himself for having allowed his own cowardly fear of oblivion to drive him to this point, where even the last shreds of his dignity were gone and all that remained was for this shriveled shell to give up its ghost and expire. At least he had no extended relatives waiting outside to snap up his estate. Barbara was gone, and the Wellesleys had no need of or interest in his money, so everything would go to Richard. It was with some pleasure that he remembered that little Henrietta had always loved Smallbridge. Though she wasn't so little anymore… Doubtless she would force her layabout father to hold onto the house.

Horatio frowned. That was too harsh. He did in fact love his son, and Richard wasn't a layabout, precisely. What he was was a musician, and apparently a very good one, but music was an occupation totally alien to his tone-deaf father. He might have served more purpose in Horatio's eyes knitting sweaters for small dogs. Richard was also a man with an abundance of womanish feeling about him which Horatio suspected had been inherited from his birth mother, and whose saccharine pitying looks he found he could no longer stomach. He had therefore asked for peace in his final moments and rasped long enough to have all other human beings escorted out of the room. He would die as he had lived, alone with his own ceaseless thoughts.

His fingers curled into the sheets as he continued to wheeze out labored breaths. He allowed his eyes to close, and visions of all those who had gone before him began to appear in his mind's eye. He thought first of Barbara, picturing her as she had been that long-gone day aboard the _Lydia_ , tanned and confident and perfect. Then Maria, and the two little ones. Then Bush, then Archie, then Matthews and Styles, Longley and Wellard, the nameless multitude of men who had been torn to pieces under his command.

Horatio had only ever gone to church when attendance was required of him; he was not a spiritual man whatsoever. But he allowed himself some small comfort in the knowledge that he would at least share the act of dying with some very good company.

As he faded away, the last sensation in Horatio's mind was the smell of the sea, the sound of the wind in the sails, and the deck rolling beneath his feet. He tried to concentrate for a few moments more. _For a hallucination, this feels remarkably real,_ he thought.

Then everything went black.

* * *

_\- - July 4th, 2015 - -_

Jo drove her car up to the end of the pier, which had been cordoned off by yellow police tape. Henry saw there was a small crowd beginning to gather, but not enough to block their progress towards the scene. He stood still for a moment on the pier, taking in his surroundings. There was a light breeze, and he could smell faintly the scent of salt floating in from the harbor. On the left-hand side of the pier were a few boats, bobbing on the Hudson. On the right was a small, square building with the half-painted word "Museum" above its glass doors; it looked dark inside, and littered with construction equipment, so it probably wasn't ready to open yet. And beyond that was…

Jo glanced at him inquiringly. "You know that ship?"

"Not per se," Henry said distractedly, gazing up at the tall wooden masts and flapping sails of the HMS _Hotspur._ "She's a twenty-gun quarter-deck sloop, sailed during the Napoleonic Wars. One of her most notable engagements was with an enemy frigate escorting a convoy carrying cargoes of Spanish gold."

"Neat," Jo said, well used to his historical tidbits by now. "So, according to Hanson, our vic's at the end of the pier."

Henry followed Jo down the pier until they encountered Detective Hanson, who pointed them towards the body. Henry knelt down to begin his initial examination. The victim was indeed headless, and still fully-clothed in a pair of khaki shorts and a lilac blouse. "Female, likely mid-twenties," he mumbled, gazing at the severed stump of the neck. "Cause of death was decapitation.”

He could hear Hanson snort behind him. "Obviously."

“But…”

Jo leaned over. “But what?”

“Well, the cut is very clean,” Henry said, pointing. “And it was done in one fell swoop. Most likely this was a weapon with a long blade, a sword, for instance. And whoever did it was quite skilled. I may be able to find out what type of blade it was once we get her back to the lab." He stood up. "Have you identified her yet?"

"Yeah," Hanson replied. "Anna Cardinal, according to her driver's license. We also found an employee ID card for a New York Maritime Museum. Apparently, she works on that thing.” He pointed to the _Hotspur_.

“Well,” Jo said, sizing up the ship once more. “Mike, why don’t you canvas the area for witnesses? I’ll go up there and see what I can find out.” She turned to Henry. “You coming?”

“What, you're takin’ him on the sailboat and not me?” Hanson protested.

Jo gave Henry a knowing look. “Let’s just say I think he knows a little bit more about this historical stuff than you do,” she said. So far, she was the only one at the police station who’d been entrusted with the knowledge of Henry’s immortality. “He was practically giving me the tour while we were walking down the pier. No hard feelings.”

Hanson grumbled a little, then moved off down the pier to start interviewing people in the crowd, leaving Henry and Jo to board the _Hotspur_.

The two of them climbed up the gangway connecting the old ship to the pier. Henry followed Jo up onto the raised quarterdeck, pensively running his hand along the rail on the starboard side. Of course, the ship must have been extensively renovated and restored since her fighting days, but it was strangely satisfying to imagine that these could be the very boards _he_ had walked, the heels of his sea-boots wearing the path of his morning paces into the wood, his hand perhaps tracing this same rail.

Jo was looking back at him now with an odd look on her face. "You okay?"

Henry shook himself out of his thoughts. "Fine. Why do you ask?"

"Hm, no reason." Jo shrugged. "You just tend to get … reflective when you're around old stuff with sentimental value." She raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you have nothing to do with this ship?"

Curse her observational skills and finely-honed detective's intuition. One of these days she would find out everything he'd ever done in his two hundred years of life. It might just be easier to start being more open with her. He was about to reply, when there was a strange noise from the back of the ship. It sounded like a heavy thump, muffled by a few layers of wood. 

Jo turned immediately towards the captain's cabin, her hand straying to her hip. She looked back at Henry and tossed her head towards the cabin. He nodded.

After pausing briefly with her fingers wrapped around the handle, Jo flung open the cabin door and rushed inside, Henry hot on her heels. An instant later, there was a smaller thump as Jo discovered how low the cabin's ceiling was, via a wooden beam to the head. "Owww…" she groaned, rubbing her forehead while scanning the room. "Huh, looks empty- oh." Her brow furrowed in confusion. "What the hell?"

Henry strained to see what she was talking about; she appeared to be staring at the floor behind a small wooden desk. He took a few steps into the cabin, ducking his head. Suddenly, there was a quiet groan, a shuffling sound, and a man rose unsteadily to his feet, leaning on the back of the desk chair for support. He was dressed in full 19th century naval uniform, the single epaulet on his left shoulder signifying a rank of commander. He looked young, perhaps in his early to mid-twenties. And his face was shockingly familiar; in fact, Henry would have recognized it instantly if he could believe it was really there.

The man blinked, staring at him in confusion, then glanced around the cabin, stumbled a little, and finally turned back to stare at Henry. After a few seconds that seemed to stretch into forever, he spoke. "Father?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this before Res Ipsa Loquitur and dropped it for a while, but I’ve recently picked it back up again, so I apologize if there’s any sort of conceptual overlap between this fic and that one. I know this type of crossover has been done before, but I’ve put my own spin on it. I ended up departing from canon with regards to Henry's age because I really feel like he makes a convincing Horatio-dad; 1) he's a doctor, and 2) he's played by a noticeably older Ioan and is generally a more emotionally-mature character. Also, pushing back the date of his first death actually makes it more historically accurate, because the slave trade had been abolished for seven years by 1814 anyway. That's my list of disclaimers; if you still think this fic is believable, by all means continue to stick around.


	2. Chapter 2

After two hundred years, it was not easy to surprise Henry Morgan. But now he was completely dumbfounded. He was almost afraid to believe what his own senses were telling him, as though acknowledgment would dispel the vision. But as the seconds passed by and the man continued to stand there, blinking at him blearily and swaying a little, Henry managed to overcome his shock long enough to murmur, hoping, almost pleading, "...Horatio?" He took a step forward. "Can it be?"

Horatio carefully negotiated his way around the desk, his head ducking naturally to avoid the ceiling beams. He came to a stop in front of Henry, looking him up and down without a trace of surprise. "I must be dead, then," he said, calmly. "I mean no offense, but I should like to see my wife." And with that, he sidestepped Henry and walked out of the cabin.

Jo was the first to react. "Hey! NYPD!" she snapped, darting after him. "I have more than a few questions for you!"

Henry stepped out onto the deck, his mind reeling. Horatio was alive. How? Did he have the same curse? But the circumstances weren't right. He was fully-clothed, for one thing, and hadn't re-appeared in the water.

Horatio had reached the forward rail of the quarterdeck and was studying the skyline with a furrowed brow. "Odd sort of afterlife," he muttered.

Jo reached him first, tapping him none too gently on the shoulder until he turned around. "Not the afterlife, just New York," she said, flashing her badge. "How exactly do you know Henry?"

"New York?" Horatio looked Jo up and down as if noticing her for the first time. "...No," he said after a moment's thought. "This can't New York. Because I am dead." He pointed towards Henry. "And he is dead. And New York…" He motioned towards the skyline. "...does not look like that. Not to mention that it is extremely unlikely that I was transported from my bed in Smallbridge across the Atlantic without being aware of it." He turned back to gazing out over the rail. "I wonder if Bush’s got his leg back…?" he mumbled distractedly.

Jo gave Henry a Look. The Look said "what is happening" and "I need a drink" and "do something about this" all at once. Henry found he felt much the same way. "Horatio," he said, closing the distance between the two of them and reaching out to grasp his shoulder. The warm firmness of it finally convinced him that this was real, was actually happening. Horatio winced at his touch and pulled away; the reaction sent a stab of shock and pain through Henry's chest, but he continued. "You're alive," he said, his voice full of emotion. "And so am I. I have been. But I … I couldn't reach you." He gestured towards the skyline. "And we  _ are _ in New York, just two hundred years in the future." He smiled apologetically. "I know, it's a lot to take in. I promise I'll explain everything … or as much as I can, anyway."

Horatio frowned. "The future?"

"Yes, the future!" Henry wanted so badly to scoop him up in his arms and never let him go again, but recalling the way Horatio had reacted to being touched held him back. "The year now is 2015."

Horatio regarded him with wide eyes, then turned towards the shore. His gaze followed the cars down 12th Avenue, flitted between buildings and billboards, surveyed the small boats moored on the other side of the pier and watched as one of them motored away, the water frothing in its wake. He turned back around, and for a moment there was a look of horrible realization plain on his face. Then, almost immediately, he seemed to shut down. His features arranged themselves into a careful mask of non-feeling, an expression so practiced that it happened in an instant. This accomplished, he fell silent for what felt like far too long. His eyes were looking straight ahead, but didn't seem to be focusing on anything in particular. Henry could see Jo itching to break the silence, but they were both caught waiting for him to speak, wondering frantically what his reaction would be. Finally, Horatio opened his mouth, and cleared his throat. "Ha - h'm."

Jo was still watching him, waiting for him to say something, but he never did. After a few moments more, he seemed to forget about her and Henry altogether and started pacing, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. The soft thuds of his buckled shoes on the deck quickly fell into a regular rhythm; Henry noticed he was taking the exact same amount of steps each way. He sensed that there was a whirlwind of thought racing behind that impassive face, but he couldn't begin to guess what those thoughts were, or what he could do to assuage them.

Jo sidled up alongside Henry. "So, uh," she said in a low voice, "don't tell me this is the long-lost son we were talking about earlier…?"

Henry nodded. "His name's Horatio Hornblower. He became a naval officer. A very good one."

"How good?"

"Well, he started off with nothing, and by the end of his career he was an Admiral of the Fleet, a Knight of the Order of the Bath, and a Baron. This ship was his first real command."

"Oh. Wow." Jo watched the pacing figure with renewed interest. "But how did he get here? You don't think he's the same as you?"

"It's unlikely," Henry said. "At the same time, I have no idea how this could have happened." He found himself smiling. "Not that I'm complaining, mind."

"Aw." Jo was smiling, too. She placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a little rub. "You know what, take my car and get him back to the antiques shop. You've got a lot of catching up to do."

Henry would have loved nothing more than to take her up on her offer, but… "What about the case? What about you?"

"Hanson and I can finish things here," Jo said. "And I can have him drop me off at the shop when we're done. Then I'll take my car back and get out of your hair."

"Thank you," Henry said, truly grateful.

Jo smiled. "Hey, that's what friends are for." She stole one last glance at Horatio. "...Do you think he knows anything about the murder?"

"Jo!"

"Sorry, sorry." She threw her hands up and backed away towards the gangway, tossing him her keys. "You'll have to introduce us properly some time," she said, then left the ship and started walking down the pier.

Henry watched Horatio pace for a few more moments, trying to decide how to interrupt him. He found himself taking note of how much his appearance seemed to have changed since the last time he'd seen him. Granted, that had been a very long time ago, and Henry knew memories couldn't always be trusted, but he could still vividly picture the pale, gangly youth who had left Portsmouth swimming in his brand-new uniform. Before him now was a tanned young man, radiating quiet authority even in this agitated state and looking perfectly at home exactly where he was, striding across the deck of his ship.

Henry realized suddenly that Horatio's pacing had stopped, and he was being stared at. "Who was that woman?" Horatio asked. He was standing stiffly, his hands still clasped behind his back.

"A police detective," Henry said, "and a good friend. Her name is Jo Martinez."

Horatio blinked. "A woman police detective?" His confusion passed as quickly as it had come. "Well. I suppose if this is indeed the future, much has changed."

Henry smiled. It was extremely formal, and didn't sound anything like 'glad you're alive, Dad,' but it was a start. "It has. It will likely take some time to explain everything."

"I expect it will." Horatio, despite his outer calm, still seemed slightly rattled. "Perhaps we might discuss this further in my quarters?"

Henry coughed. "Ah, actually, I had hoped you might come back with me to my house. You will need somewhere to stay."

Horatio seemed to realize on his own that of course the  _ Hotspur _ was no longer his, and his features twitched as he tried to suppress his embarrassment. "Thank you most kindly for the offer," he said, "but I shouldn't wish to impose - "

"That was actually not a request," Henry said, and when Horatio looked like he was about to mount some protest, he decided tough love was necessary. "You're confused and completely out of your element, and I will not have you wandering around on your own just to get mugged or run over by a car."

Horatio frowned slightly. "What is a car?"

Henry smiled. "You're about to find out. Come on." He started heading towards the gangway, then paused and turned around when he noticed Horatio hadn't moved. "Well?"

Horatio cast one last, long glance around the ship, looking torn. Finally, he let out a quiet "ha - h'm," adjusted his hat, and followed Henry onto the pier.

* * *

Horatio tried to keep his eyes from wandering as he followed Henry down the pier. He had already made a fool of himself in front of the police-woman, and though logically he knew there could have been no avoiding it, there was nothing he hated more than to appear foolish, especially as a first impression. He was therefore attempting to maintain as much of his dignity as possible, and for the moment that meant acting as though he was not curious about this new world in the least. This was, however, proving extremely difficult, and was in fact testing all of his carefully-cultivated powers of self-composure. What perplexed him most was how the small boat he'd seen pull away from the pier had done so with such incredible speed, against the wind and without any sail or oars. Perhaps if it was some kind of steamer… but he hadn’t seen any steam. He resolved to ask Henry about it as soon as they were out of the public eye, though even then he would be sure not to sound too interested.

The two of them reached the end of the pier, which was blocked off by taut yellow banners with the word "police" printed across their length. Henry grabbed one and stretched it above his head, ducking through. Horatio felt the material between his fingers as he followed; it was strangely smooth and inorganic, yet behaved almost like fabric.

"Here we are," said Henry, reaching into his pocket and approaching what looked like a strange sort of vehicle. It resembled the things Horatio could still see speeding along the riverbank, on a flat, dark-grey path that must have been a road. "This is a car," Henry said, turning what proved to be a key in a small lock on the vehicle's door and pulling it open. "It's rather like a carriage without the need for horses. This one belongs to Jo, actually." He walked around to the other side of the "car" and pulled open a second door, holding it open. Horatio hesitated in spite of himself, and Henry smiled reassuringly. "In you get," he said. "You may want to doff your hat, the ceiling is a bit low."

Horatio complied, flopping awkwardly into the seat and holding his hat in his lap. Henry swung the door closed and walked around the front to slide into his own seat, positioning himself behind a small wheel. Horatio found it briefly humorous that this 'car' might be steered like a ship.

"Oh, here," Henry said suddenly, and reached across Horatio's body to a spot beyond his right shoulder. Horatio reflexively pressed himself back against the seat, watching as Henry withdrew and pulled a grey belt across his chest, attaching it to the base of the seat so that it rested across his hips and over his shoulder. "Always fasten your seatbelt," Henry said, doing the same for himself. "It's an important safety feature."

Horatio tensed. There was only one reason he could think of for needing to be strapped down in such a way. "Do these … cars … make sudden, jarring movements?"

"Only if there's an accident," Henry said, smiling reassuringly again. "Don't worry, I happen to be an extremely cautious driver."

There was nothing Horatio could do but watch as Henry inserted the car key into the side of the wheel and gave it a hard turn, filling the car with a low rumbling sound. "That's the engine," Henry explained, pressing lightly on a pedal near the floor with his foot. As he did so, the car began to move, slowly pulling away from the pier. "It actually uses internal combustion to move a series of pistons up and down, which generates power."

"Combustion?" Horatio felt his eyes widen. "You mean it explodes?!"

"Well, yes, in a sense. But it's perfectly safe." Henry flipped a switch and began slowly turning the wheel to starboard. "People have had over a hundred years to perfect this technology. They say these things could even be driving themselves soon, though I personally find that to be a bit much..."

Horatio stared through the curved glass pane at the front of the car. They had reached the road that ran along the riverbank; other cars flew by in front of them, a mere couple of feet away. Henry was looking up through the glass at a yellow box that hung above the road. It seemed to have some sort of light source inside, shining out from behind a bit of red glass. It, like the rest of the city lights Horatio had seen thus far, seemed uncommonly bright. As he studied it, he noticed that the cars traveling down the main road seemed to be slowing and eventually rolling to a stop.

The red light in the box went out suddenly, and a green light appeared. An instant later, Henry pressed his foot down on the floor pedal, and the car peeled away from the pier and turned onto the road. Horatio was amazed when he grasped that the lights were a form of signalling, to control traffic. When the amazement faded a few seconds later, he realized that the car was now moving very, very fast.

All around him, the world flew by in a blur. People walking along the side of the road appeared for an instant and then were gone. The noise from the engine increased as the car built up speed, all but flying down the road. Horatio had never experienced anything remotely like this in his entire life, and it was absolutely terrifying. He turned his head slightly to look out the window next to his seat, and immediately wished he hadn't. Now the all-too-familiar complaints of his weak stomach were beginning to make themselves known, as they did whenever he started out on a voyage or rode in a small boat on rough waves. He tried shutting his eyes, but he could still sense the car's movement.

A groan burst out of him, and he saw Henry take his eyes off the road to look at him with concern. "Are you alright?"

"Fine!" Horatio snapped. He did not want the man distracted at this rate of speed. But he could feel a pain in his head, and the bile was rising in his throat. He gripped the arms of the seat and willed himself to calm down. Never mind that he was beginning to feel hot, his head was pounding, his stomach twisted with agony. He absolutely could not afford to be sick. This wasn't even Henry's car. Imagine what the police-woman would think of him if he ruined the upholstery.

Henry glanced over at him again. "Are you sure? You look pale. We can stop for a bit, if you like."

"No," Horatio said firmly. It would be the ultimate weakness to have to stop for a break after less than a minute of travel. Bush had comported himself better while bumping over ruined French roads and bleeding from the stump of his lost foot. The reminder of his old friend's iron constitution made Horatio feel deeply ashamed by the betrayal of his insides. He mentally cursed his own stomach, then cursed all stomachs everywhere for good measure. If nothing else, at least this car ride was smooth going.

Suddenly, there was a terrible jarring bump, Henry said "Damned potholes," and Horatio flew forward and vomited into his hat.

* * *

The twenty minutes that followed were quite possibly the most miserable of Horatio's mostly miserable life. Luckily, the car spent much of its time crawling through traffic, and Henry drove noticeably slower when it was not.

They finally came to a stop at a corner storefront, and Horatio stumbled out of the wretched vehicle, feeling weak at the knees and still carefully holding his hat upside-down. He briefly surveyed the shop; through its windows, he could see an assortment of furniture and other odds and ends. A sign above the door read "Abe's Antiques," and featured a drawing of an English merchant ship.

Henry appeared at his shoulder, replacing the car keys in his pocket. "There are rooms above the shop," he said, pulling out a different set of keys and unlocking the glass doors. "We have a guest room, but it's a bit cluttered, I'm afraid."

Horatio entered the shop and turned in a slow circle. There was some noise that sounded like it could be music, but he didn't see any musicians. It was probably just as well, because he might have deliberately injured them. The "music" involved squealing trumpets, strange rhythms, and a lot of terrible metallic crashing, and above it all, a sharp crackling noise. Horatio felt he would go mad if he had to listen to it for long, but it never seemed to end.

Henry re-locked the doors and walked towards him. There was something fidgety about his manner; he appeared to be readying himself for something. A moment later, he reached out an arm and, gently, wrapped it around Horatio's shoulders. Horatio stiffened, surprised, uncomfortable, still suffering under the auditory barrage, and really hoping that Henry's gesture wouldn't knock his hat out of his hands because that would be just -

"I love you," Henry said. His voice sounded slightly wobbly, and his eyes were suspiciously shiny. "I've missed you. I never forgave myself for losing you."

Horatio extricated himself from the half-embrace. He had been trying to avoid a personal conversation with Henry, because he could feel the old bitterness welling up within him. He had led a hard life because of him; the lonely life of a poor, friendless orphan. He had married a woman he did not love because she had been kind to him while he was destitute, and he had been afraid to approach the great love of his life because she would find him shabby and common. And the moment all his hardship was over, when he'd finally dragged himself up to the top, he was told that his father Henry Hornblower had actually been Henry Morgan, the scion of one of the wealthiest merchant families in England, and all his life Horatio could have had mountains of money at his fingertips if he'd only known to ask. That discovery had, in its way, been the worst blow of all. But he couldn't possibly give voice to any of this; he was well aware of the ferocity of his own temper when fully unleashed, and he didn't think it wise to mortally wound his emotionally-vulnerable host, lest he be turned out on his ear with no money and no idea how this mad world worked. So he kept his expression blank, and simply said, "You've been alive all this time … Why did you not return?"

Henry gave a sad smile and motioned him towards a nearby settee. "It's a long story…"


	3. Chapter 3

Henry told Horatio the story of his curse, everything from his ill-fated trip on the  _ Empress of Africa _ up to the most recent events with Adam, though leaving out quite a few details which he considered to be too disturbing or personal. Horatio had listened with rapt attention in the beginning, but as the tale stretched on, he began to look increasingly distracted. Henry frowned. "Is something wrong?"

Horatio, whose eyes had been searching the room, turned back to face him. "Well," he said, "it is all a bit … fantastic."

Henry's eyes widened. "You don't believe me? After all…" He gestured widely. "...this?"

"No, it's not that, I simply…" Horatio glanced around the room again. His face was beginning to show signs of pain through its usual stoic facade. "It's difficult to accept … all at once…" Something pushed him suddenly past the breaking point, and he roared, "Where are these thrice-blasted musicians and will they never stop their infernal racket?!"

Henry blinked. "What?" He listened for a moment, then realized the Victrola was still playing Abe's jazz record. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, standing up and crossing the shop. "There are no musicians here; it's a recording. The music is sort of … stored on the grooves in this disc. Would you like to see?"

Horatio's curiosity seemed to win out over his hatred for the jazz, and he inspected the Victrola with fascination. "This must have other, more useful applications, surely," he said.

"Well, music is the main one," Henry said. He decided for now not to tell Horatio that the record player was actually already outmoded; the phone conversation might not go well considering he didn't have one of his own to show him. Best leave that one to Jo. He lifted the needle, the music stopped, and he heard Horatio let out a sigh of relief. "I feel I must apologize for Abe's taste," Henry said. "Free-form jazz takes some getting used to."

Horatio gave a slight nod. "Abe is the boy you rescued from Poland, correct?"

"Well, he's not exactly a boy anymore," Henry said, glancing towards the stairs. "He's probably still making dinner. He's quite the accomplished cook."

As he finished speaking, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Smiling at the perfect timing, he started preparing to introduce Abe to his adopted brother, then froze as a giggling older woman stumbled down the stairs. She was in the midst of pulling the sleeve of her dress back up over her shoulder. When she saw Henry, she froze, flushed a bright crimson, then bolted for the door, calling out a strained "Goodbye, Abe!" as she went.

"See you again next week?" came the response from up the stairs, and a few seconds later Abe descended, his shirt untucked and rumpled. He, too, froze when he caught sight of Henry. "...Old friend from high school," he said.

"Abraham!"

"I thought you'd be out!" Abe quickly tucked his shirt back in. "It's a holiday. You think I was just gonna sit here and twiddle my thumbs?" He stepped out into the shop, then spotted Horatio. A few moments passed while he studied the young man's face, then glanced back at Henry, took a second look, then raised an eyebrow. "Cloning yourself and dressing it up like Lin Manuel Miranda is a weird way to celebrate Independence Day," he said.

"Ha - h'm," replied Horatio.

Henry sighed. This wasn't the sort of introduction he'd been hoping for, but it would have to do.

* * *

Back on Pier 80, Jo was feeling disappointed. After Henry had left, she’d searched the entire ship, but hadn’t seen anyone else. Hanson hadn’t had much luck with finding witnesses, either, and it was starting to get dark. At this point, they might as well head home for the night and try again tomorrow.

She approached Hanson where he stood at the beginning of the pier. He anticipated her question and asked it first. “Think it’s about time we packed it in for the day?”

“Yeah,” Jo said. “I’ll come back tomorrow and see if any of the ship museum staff are in.”

“You gonna take the doc with you?”

“Nah… I’d better let him get started with the autopsy. We still need to figure out what the murder weapon was.”

Hanson nodded. “Hey, speaking of Henry… who was that guy he left with? The one dressed up like George Washington.”

Jo stifled a laugh. Somehow she didn't think Horatio would appreciate that comparison. She realized, though, that she would now have to come up with an explanation - Henry looked older than Horatio, but not enough for the father-son relationship to be believable. At the same time, there could be no denying the family resemblance. “Oh, he’s Henry’s… brother,” she said, hoping Henry would forgive her for this. “He just came over from England.”

“And the costume?”

“Hell if I know,” Jo said, shrugging her shoulders. It would be unwise to make the story too complicated. She’d let Henry fill in whatever details were necessary when Hanson got curious enough to ask him about it.

“Huh.” Hanson walked with his hands in his pockets. “Well, Henry’s a pretty eccentric guy. Kinda makes sense that his family’d be kooky, too.”

Jo shook her head, smiling. Funny how used they all were to Henry's weirdness. At least in this situation, it made things a little easier.

* * *

Horatio stood in silence while Henry explained the situation to Abe. He was taking the opportunity to study the man; he had an open, friendly face, and Horatio supposed it was a credit to him that he didn't seem too shocked by this whole state of affairs. Horatio, on the other hand, was a bit surprised by Abe's age. Henry had told him that the war from which he'd rescued Abe had taken place some time ago, but Horatio hadn't gotten the impression that it had been  _ that  _ long. The man must have been sixty years old, at least. Observing the two of them, though, it was clear that there existed between them the implicit understanding and closeness of a happy family. It made Horatio feel as though his own presence was an intrusion; compared to the amount of time Henry had spent with Abe, Horatio was practically a stranger.

"...lo? Hello? Anybody in there?"

With a start, Horatio realized that Abe was addressing him. "Ah, yes, my apologies," he mumbled, hoping he wasn't getting red in the face.

Abe grinned and held out his hand. "I said it's nice to meet ya."

Horatio accepted the handshake, then suddenly found himself pulled into a firm embrace, receiving a few hard pats on the back. Unprepared, all he could do was wriggle helplessly and endure the squeezing until it ended as quickly as it had begun. Abe drew back, still grinning. "Kid definitely takes after you, pops; he's a space cadet."

Horatio wasn't sure what that meant, but it might have been a mild insult, because Henry huffed. "It's been a rather trying day for him."

"Well, in that case, he'll be needing some good food," Abe said. "We've still got ribs waiting upstairs."

Horatio felt the protest of his weak stomach. "...Unfortunately, I seem to have no appetite at present."

Henry had that damned expression of concern on his face again. "Are you feeling alright? Do you need to use the bathroom?"

"I'd say he needs to get acquainted with a shower whether he's feeling alright or not," Abe said, turning to Horatio. "Not to be rude, but you smell like gunpowder and a crate of rotting fish. Though I guess it's understandable, since you're from a less hygienic time."

Horatio bristled. Was he really implying that he didn't wash regularly?! "I take my personal cleanliness very seriously, sir," he said. "Even in the Baltic, I would have water pumped over me every morning at sunrise!"

Henry was aghast. "Are you mad? You could have given yourself hypothermia!"

"I don't believe the wisdom of my personal habits to be any of your concern!" Horatio snapped.

Henry fell silent, and Horatio saw instantly that he'd hurt him. He now wore the same kind of expression Bush had gotten whenever Horatio rebuffed his mothering tendencies. But whereas old reliable Bush could always be counted on to recover, Horatio was not at all sure the same could be said for Henry. "...My apologies," he said. "I should not have spoken so harshly."

Henry shook his head. "It's alright," he said with a small smile. "I do believe, however, that a hot shower may help you feel better. Or perhaps a bath, whichever you prefer."

Horatio sighed. "If you insist." As he followed Henry up the staircase, his brow furrowed. Henry had mentioned a shower. Such things had existed in his time, and he’d experienced one, once; he recalled them as unreliable collections of bamboo-painted pipes, and he’d never had one installed in his own house. Hopefully by now the technology had improved.

Henry led him into a small white room with a grey tiled floor. The bath was a low white tub that ran along the side of the room and seemed to be firmly rooted to the floor. A thin pipe extended above the tub from the wall, with a nozzle at its end. In the same wall was a silver handle, the turning of which apparently was how the shower was operated. Henry handed him a fluffy grey towel and left the room; once he was gone, Horatio stripped off his clothes and stepped into the tub.

He grasped the faucet handle and pulled it towards him experimentally. He was greeted with the sharp hiss of water spraying down on him from the nozzle. It was lukewarm and pressurized, though not nearly as much so as a ship's pump. Horatio decided to try the hot water, and so turned the handle to the left. A few seconds later, the water began to heat up, and within a few seconds more it was scalding his skin. Wincing, he turned the handle back to the right, and the water cooled.

He fiddled with the handle until the water was just hot enough to warm him without burning holes in his skin. He'd always enjoyed his cold deck dousings, but the sensation he was experiencing right now was just  _ perfect _ . He could feel the tension draining from his muscles as the warm water ran over him, and before he knew it he was leaning against the back wall of the shower and sliding to the floor, pulling his knees up against his chest. As he sat there, water droplets striking his face and running down his nose, his calm, unemotional facade disappeared. He allowed himself to feel again the terrible crushing weight he'd first felt when he'd realized what had happened to him, which he'd pushed down and suppressed in the presence of Henry and the police woman and Abe. He allowed it out now, hoping it might wash away with the water. Instead, it settled over him like a shroud, filling his mind with black thoughts.

He was now trapped in a world where he didn’t belong, where everything was completely foreign and strange. That very strangeness made him vulnerable, and utterly dependant on others. There was no outer image of the stern captain or the aloof admiral for him to hide behind now. It was as though he was a midshipman again, stumbling around on the deck of the  _ Justinian _ unable to tell a head from a halliard. Only this time, it was the entire world which he knew nothing about.

He closed his eyes and sat in the shower for a long while. Eventually, he sighed. "Damn," he muttered, then rose to his feet, picked up the soap, and started scrubbing himself down. He scrubbed ferociously, until his skin began to redden.  _ I'll show that old billy goat which one of us practices superior personal hygiene,  _ he thought savagely.  _ After this, I am going to be bleeding soap. Then he'll certainly think twice before saying I smell like fish! _

It wasn't the most glorious or even the most reasonable of fights to pick, but it was enough to help him push the terrible feeling back down, which was what he needed to keep going. For now, at least.  
  


* * *

Abe glanced at his watch. “He’s taking a long time in there. Not gonna be any hot water left at this rate.” He turned to Henry, looking slightly worried. “He knows I was joking about the fish thing, right? Well, mostly joking.”

Henry sighed. “He likely doesn't. He was always serious, even as a child.”

Abe nodded slightly, then paused. “Hey, are you alright?”

“Me?” Henry blinked. “I - yes, I'm fine. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you just reunited with your kid from two hundred years ago,” Abe said. “And he’s kind of a jerk.”

“Wha- No he’s not!” Henry sputtered. “Shame on you, Abraham! He’s just getting used to things! Imagine if you were suddenly thrown into an entirely new world you didn't know anything about.” He leaned back in his chair. “It's been hard enough for me, adjusting gradually over the years. He just needs time.”

Abe threw his hands up. “Alright, alright. But if he snaps at you like that again…”

A knock at the door saved Henry from further conversation down that road. He could see Jo waving at him through the glass doors, and he found himself smiling as he went to greet her. “So,” he said as he opened the doors, “how goes the case?”

“Not very far since you left,” Jo said, stepping into the shop. “Interviewing bystanders didn’t turn up anything, and there was no one else on the ship. I'm gonna go back tomorrow and see if any of Anna’s coworkers show up.” She stood awkwardly for a moment, then held out her hand. “Anyway, I'm just here for my keys.”

“Ah, yes,” Henry said, reaching into his pocket. “I nearly forgot.” He held the keys up, about to place them in her hand, then stopped. “You haven't tried Abe’s ribs yet.”

Jo laughed. “It’s been hours! Look, it’s dark outside.”

“We can reheat them,” Henry said. “It will take a few minutes, though, since we don't own an eldritch abomination of modern cooking science.”

“A what?”

“A microwave.”

Jo shook her head, smirking and grabbing the keys. “Oh, alright. But I shouldn't stay long. We both have to work tomorrow, you know.”

“Shouldn't stop us from finishing our holiday, in my opinion,” Henry said, intercepting a knowing look from Abe while the three of them headed up the stairs.

“Kinda smells like soap in here,” Jo said as she walked into the dining room. She froze. “Woah. Uh…”

Horatio was standing behind the table, still slightly damp from the shower and absolutely stark naked. He too was frozen in shock. Though his face and arms were tanned from time spent at sea, the rest of him was pale-white and thin and extremely bony. His gangly limbs were tensed, ready to bolt. “I, ah, sorry, I… was not expecting… a… woman… to be…”

“Go put some pants on,” Jo said, her eyes already shut.

Horatio darted into the bathroom.

When the door slammed, Jo cracked open an eye. “Is it safe?”

“...Yes,” Henry said, feeling a little stunned himself. “Yes, I believe so.”

Jo shook her head, smirking. “Poor guy. We keep meeting in awkward situations.”

“I think he just carries awkwardness around with him, like an aura or something,” Abe said, opening the refrigerator and grabbing the ribs. “Anyway, pops, you’re definitely gonna have to set some ground rules on running around the house naked.”

Jo glanced at Henry, an eyebrow raised suggestively. “You do realize you’re talking to someone who runs around naked in public?”

“Oh, so that’s the family resemblance.” Abe stroked his chin. “Didn’t know that sort of thing was genetic.”

Henry sighed. “I really ought to know better than to allow you two to be in the same room together.”

Horatio was apparently a fast dresser. He stumbled out of the bathroom less than a minute after he’d entered, once again in full uniform, his thin fingers in the midst of pulling his hair back into a sloppy queue. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room for a few moments, then cleared his throat and addressed Jo. “...You are the woman police detective?”

Jo looked amused. “Well, I am a woman and a detective, so I guess so.” She held out her hand. “Jo Martinez. Now we’ve officially met.”

Horatio shook her hand after a brief hesitation. “Admiral Sir Horatio Lord Hornblower, K.B.” He glanced briefly at the single epaulette on his uniform. “...Although it seems I’ve been considerably demoted.”

Jo shrugged. “That’s one more fancy shoulder pad than I’ve ever had. Anyway, it’s nice to meet you.” She grinned. “If you ever want some real up-to-date lessons on modern technology, call me, okay? Henry’s still living in the ‘60s when it comes to that stuff.”

It was obvious that didn’t mean anything to Horatio, but he nodded politely. Suddenly, there was a muffled ‘boom’ from outside, then another. Horatio gave a start, and for a moment, there was real surprise and even a hint of fear in his eyes. “That sounded like cannon fire! Is America at war?!”

Henry was momentarily confused; upon glancing out the window, however, he remembered what the source of the sounds was. “Oh, no,” he said, motioning Horatio towards the window. “Well, actually, the ‘war’ situation is a bit complicated, but those aren’t cannons. They’re fireworks. Americans set them off every fourth of July to celebrate their independence.”

The fireworks were just visible from this part of the house, if one didn’t mind craning one’s neck. Horatio looked supremely awkward, his tall, lean body twisting as he gaped up at the night sky. “Trust the Americans to come up with something so ridiculous,” he muttered. “If they  _ are _ at war, this is a monumental waste of munitions.”

“Psh.” Abe looked mildly offended. “America can afford to shoot off a few bottle rockets on its birthday.”

Jo smiled. “Oh, speaking of birthdays…”

Henry, for some unknown reason, was infinitely happy she’d remembered. Perhaps it was the confirmation that he could count on her to listen to his winding tales and believe them, be interested enough to hold onto the details. It made him glad he’d decided to open up to her, as though there might come a time when he would be able to tell her absolutely anything without hesitation. He both loved and feared the prospect. For now, he glanced over at Horatio. “Indeed. Perhaps we should open a bottle of wine in celebration.”

Horatio looked back and forth between him and Jo, frowning confusedly at both of them. “...Whose birthday is it?”

There were a few moments of silence, eventually broken by Abe. “Yours, ya dingus!”

“Oh.” Horatio blinked. “Oh, yes. Of course.” There was a long pause, during which the unspoken ‘I forgot’ hung heavy in the air. “...But there's no need to go to any trouble on my account.”

“Nonsense,” Henry said, already inspecting the wine rack in the kitchen. He recalled that during the time Horatio had just arrived from, French wines had been entirely off-limits. He had some California vintages, but he always found they lacked the finesse of European wines. He decided on a bottle of Spanish madeira and slid it off the rack. “Since the weather is so temperate, I would suggest we go up to the roof.”

“You can see the ridiculous fireworks better from there,” Jo teased, nudging Horatio.

“And it’s more romantic,” Abe said quietly in Henry’s ear. When Henry turned around to look at him, he flicked his eyes toward Jo, twice, pointedly. Henry narrowed his eyes at him. “Now is not the time,” he hissed, watching Jo herd an oddly reluctant Horatio towards the roof stairs.

Abe said nothing more, but arched an eyebrow. The expression was meaningful enough.


	4. Chapter 4

_\- - July 5th - -_

Horatio’s eyes snapped open, and he sat up in bed. He’d been dreaming, he was sure, but already he could remember nothing of it except a vague feeling of unease.

He glanced around him. It was still dark, though he could sense the sky was growing lighter behind the curtains over the window. He was in Henry’s guest room, the one he’d said had been a bit cluttered. It was in fact so cluttered Horatio had no idea how he’d managed to leap the boxes to get into bed.

There was a small clock on the nightstand next to him; it was seven o’clock in the morning. Exactly four hours after the last time he’d checked, which in turn had been four hours after he’d first lain down to sleep. This was not surprising, as he had never been entirely able to break out of the sleeping habits he’d acquired as a watch-keeping officer. In fact, he’d had a very restful night by his own standards. He might just as easily have lain awake all night long, tormented by the alien sounds of the city and his own lack of knowledge about any of it.

He decided he might as well rise. He had no idea what time Henry and Abe were in the habit of starting their days, but he might prefer it if they weren't up yet. He’d determined to do some exploring of this strange place on his own, no matter what Henry said about getting ‘mugged.’ He was a military man, he could damn well fend for himself.

His clothes were scattered about the room, lying on top of boxes and chair-arms and lamps. As he dressed, he recalled the events of the night before. They had all gone up onto the roof of the building to drink the wine and watch the fireworks. Horatio had in truth been afraid that his lifelong discomfort with heights would cause him to embarrass himself yet again in front of the others, but he was lucky to be seated far enough away from the edge of the roof that he could not see over it to the ground below. They’d sat at a long table under a pergola, the rockets continually bursting in the distance. Horatio hadn’t been feeling up for making an effort at conversation, so he was content to listen while Henry, Abe, and Jo talked and engaged in friendly banter. The latter two both had sharp wits armed with equally-sharp tongues; Henry’s manner was more subdued, but his own verbal barbs were in a way far deadlier, as the intended victim would often not discover his fate until the rapier was already buried to its hilt in his chest. Horatio saw them all to be far better conversationalists than himself, and so was glad of his decision to abstain. He felt that none of the others had particularly missed any contributions from him, in any case. Jo seemed to be very comfortable with both Henry and Abe… but especially Henry. Horatio had been in love many times and recognized the emotion when he saw it reflected in others; it struck him as curious that neither Henry nor Jo seemed willing to acknowledge what was so obviously going on between them. But that was their business, and he was in no position to risk becoming involved.

Finished dressing, he navigated his way around and over the boxes and slipped out of the room. In the kitchen, he found Abe sitting at the table, buttering a thin piece of bread. “You’re up early,” the old man said, regarding him with a raised eyebrow.

“Hm.” Horatio glanced around surreptitiously. “Is Henry awake?”

Abe motioned with his butter knife towards the bathroom. “He’s in the shower. You hungry? There’s toast, and fruit in the fridge… I can make somethin’, if you want.”

Horatio’s empty stomach rumbled, but he needed to take advantage of this opportunity. “I’m going out,” he said, facing Abe with a challenge in his expression, daring the man to try to stop him.

“Like hell you are,” Abe said, placing the butter knife down on the table. He raised an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth drew upwards in a smile. “Not dressed like that, anyway.”

Horatio scowled at him, but he was a bit curious. “You’re not worried I'll get myself into trouble?” he said sardonically.

“Yeah, a bit,” Abe said, “but you can do what you want. Henry won't like it, but he’ll live. He’s just a little bit clingy. Side effect of the immortality. Guy’s lost a lot; when he _has_ something, he holds onto it.” He frowned at Horatio’s uniform. “What I am worried about is you walking out of this building sticking out like a sore thumb. That would be tempting fate. Hm… you’re about the same size as Henry, too, aren’tcha? If a little skinny. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if we raided his closet.”

Before Horatio could respond, Abe dragged him into the master bedroom. “Let’s see what we’ve got…”

* * *

Horatio emerged from the room wearing a dark blue shirt and a pair of short tan trousers - “khaki shorts,” according to Abe. The shorts, looser than his own breeches, ended at his knees, but the stockings - socks - Abe had given him rose only to just below his ankle, leaving his undefined calves completely exposed. The shirt felt incomplete as well, its sleeves terminating above his elbows. Abe had insisted that he leave the collar unbuttoned, for reasons unknown. Horatio had never cared much about his personal modesty, but neither had the prevailing fashion in his time allowed for short clothes. The experience was new to him, though not entirely unpleasant. He certainly would have appreciated a pair of such shorts when he’d been stationed in the West Indies. The laced grey shoes he now wore also had less of a heel than he was used to, but they felt more comfortable because of it.

Having trussed Horatio up to his satisfaction, Abe returned to his breakfast. Before Horatio could make it downstairs, however, the old man thrust a small object into his hands, along with a slip of paper with a set of numbers written on it. “If you get lost or anything, flip open the phone, punch in that number, and hit the green button,” he said. Utterly clueless about what was supposed to happen if he did so, Horatio placed the mystery object and the slip of paper into the pocket of his shorts, deciding not to question it for now.

He stepped out of the antiques shop and into the faintly rotten-egg-scented New York air. It was early in the morning, but the sky was light and there were already people on the streets. They hurried along, none having a glance to spare for him. He supposed that was the benefit of the new clothes. Now he could blend in.

Navigating the streets posed a challenge at first; he was nearly struck by one of the cars that flew down the roads. In his time, the streets had been narrow, and this had necessitated that they be shared by pedestrians and carriages alike. Observing the people walking around him soon showed that they were confining themselves to the raised paths along the side of the road, and only crossing where the streets intersected and the signal-lights ahead of them flashed green.

Having figured this out, he found he no longer needed to worry about the cars and was free to admire the cityscape. One of the first things he’d noticed yesterday was how tall the buildings were, and that fact still amazed him. There were some off in the distance that were higher than anything he’d ever seen, practically touching the clouds. The trade-off for this wonder, however, seemed to be that the architecture was utterly tasteless. Anything above three stories was just a featureless block, in colors ranging from grey to taupe. And in an odd show of extravagance,some of the tower-like buildings seemed to be all glass. There must not be any sort of window tax here if the Americans could afford to build such things.

He reached a street lined with shops, and glanced into them as he passed. Some things were familiar; there was a bookshop, a pub, a tailor’s. In other shops, he couldn’t even identify what was being sold. There was one window, for instance, which displayed only a row of thin rectangular objects with flat, black faces, and another that promised games but only offered white or black boxes of varying sizes and small discs covered with intricate artwork. Then there were the Starbucks. Horatio passed by two of them within ten minutes; the name didn’t give him any hints as to what sort of merchandise could make Mr. Starbuck rich enough to own two stores. Nor did the twin-tailed mermaid pictured above each door. He didn’t think the wares were sea-related, since the only things he saw patrons leaving with were large cups.

Amazingly, a few streets more brought him to yet another Starbucks. This time his curiosity got the better of him and drove him inside to see for himself what was being sold. On the wall behind a long counter was a menu with a selection of drinks, nearly all of them appearing to be varieties of… coffee.

Horatio took a deep breath in through his nose; the scent of coffee filled the air, strong and rich. It actually made his fingers twitch with desire. He now wished he had asked Abe to borrow some money. It felt like ages since he’d had a good cup of coffee, and this Starbucks seemed to have an endless array of blends to choose from. There were dark roasts, cappuccinos, frappuccinos, espressos… he had no idea what many of the names meant, but he intended to try all of them.

Sadly, having no recent currency, the sweet ambrosia was most likely out of his reach; he doubted the bespectacled employee behind the counter would accept a couple of pennies dated 1804. It was with extreme reluctance that he turned to leave the shop, but stopped when the door opened to admit a familiar face.

“Hi Horatio,” Jo said with a bemused smile. “Almost didn't recognize you in your new digs.”

“...Digs?”

“Clothes. You look nice.” She joined the queue that snaked around in front of the counter. “What are you doing here?”

Horatio followed her without joining the line. “I noticed several of these shops and grew curious about what they sold.”

“Ah. Well, it's coffee.”

“I can see that,” Horatio said, his yearning gaze drawn to the stream of dark liquid being poured by an employee behind the counter.

Jo noted his expression. “You want anything? My treat.”

Horatio felt, for pride and politeness’ sake, he should decline. He instead found himself saying “Yes, thank you” and sliding into the queue. Times certainly had changed, he reflected. A week ago women had been entirely financially dependent, and now here he was practically begging one for a cup of coffee. He found he did not exactly disapprove the change; since Barbara had brought the lion's share of the money to their marriage, it had always bothered him that she was forced to ask his permission for its use. She would have liked this new world, he was sure. The thought brought with it a melancholy feeling, which he immediately did his best to suppress. The past was gone forever now, and he couldn’t afford to dwell on it.

After a few more minutes of waiting, he followed Jo out of the shop, a large - “venti” - cup of coffee in his hand. Not caring about the beverage’s temperature, he took a huge gulp, then let out a contented sigh. It wasn't the very best coffee he’d ever tasted, but it came damned close. It was leagues better than anything Styles could produce, at any rate. And it was remarkably fortifying; after only a few sips, he felt strangely energetic, his slight early-morning weariness completely forgotten. He felt _alive,_ buzzing with adrenaline. Of course, he knew the effects of coffee, but never before had he experienced them this strongly. It took another three gulps for him to realize that his fingers were twitching, but he didn't dare stop now. He finished off the cup and tossed it to the side of the road.

“Hey! No littering!” Jo picked up the empty cup and threw it into a large metal cylinder. “If you have trash, it goes in the trash can. Don’t make me write you a fine.”

Horatio wasn’t sure what he’d done that was so offensive, but he didn't feel inclined to argue. “My apologies.”

The police-woman had her own cup of something called a latte, and seemed to be eyeing Horatio thoughtfully. “Hey,” she said eventually, “you would know practically everything about that ship from yesterday, right?”

Horatio tilted his head slightly. “...I’m not entirely sure what you mean.”

“Well,” Jo said, seeming a little undecided, “I’m actually heading back there now as part of a case.”

“Case? What sort of case?”

“Murder by decapitation.” Jo casually took a sip of her latte. “Your _Hotspur’s_ being made into a museum, and it turns out the victim worked there. It could be helpful to have someone along who knew a lot about that ship and would be able to tell if something was off.” She looked at him pointedly.

Horatio blinked, taken aback. “Ah… I suppose… but I am not a police officer.” He felt safe in assuming there were rules about that.

Jo waved dismissively. “If anyone asks, we’ll just say you're a consultant. Captain Gregson uses them all the time, so it’s no big deal. Besides, it's not like you'll actually be involved in the investigation. More like a personal tour guide. Nothing illegal, I promise.” She raised an eyebrow. “Well? You in?”

Horatio had to admit that the idea of witnessing a murder investigation intrigued him, and it stroked his ego to be relied upon as an expert. He did in fact know every square inch of the _Hotspur_. It would doubtless be satisfying to do something useful instead of continuing to mope about his situation. And the effects of the coffee were making him itch for action. After a moment or two of thought, he nodded. “Very well.”

Jo smiled. “Great! Come on.” She motioned him towards the right, where Horatio saw with a sinking feeling that her car rested at the side of the road. He repressed a shudder. “Ah, is it completely necessary that we use that machine…?”

Jo clearly noticed his unease, but didn’t seem sympathetic. “Unless you want to walk for an hour.”

“As a matter of fact - ”

“Get in the car.”


	5. Chapter 5

From the Starbucks, it was about a fifteen minute drive to the docks. During the ride Jo watched Horatio out of the corner of her eye; he was definitely uncomfortable, but didn’t turn green or anything, so she figured he’d live. The simple fact was that he’d have to get used to cars at some point if he was going to hang around in the 21st century. 

She held back a sigh. It was hard enough dealing with Henry’s eccentricities. She could only hope Horatio didn’t have the same propensity for randomly wandering off.

She reached over and turned on the car radio, already tuned to her favorite punk rock station. The moment the sound of electric guitar filled the car, Horatio winced, and went so far as to plug his ears. He looked like he was in physical pain. “What is that terrible noise?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Jo scowled at him. “You could just say, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t like this music.’”

Horatio looked shocked. “That’s  _ music?! _ ”

Jo shook her head and turned the radio to the classical station she kept handy for Henry. “The things I have to do for you people,” she muttered. She was surprised, however, to look over at Horatio and see that he was still cringing. “What now? Don’t you like any music at all?”

She’d been mostly joking, but looking at Horatio’s miserable face told her that she’d actually hit the nail on the head. “Okay,” she said, turning the radio off. “Any particular reason for that?”

Horatio shifted in his seat. “There’s no reason.”

Jo raised an eyebrow. “Don’t try to lie to me. I’m a detective, you know.”

“...It just sounds like so much noise to me,” Horatio muttered, bitterly. “My ear can’t tell the difference between the notes. Does that satisfy you?”

“...Oh.” Jo was slightly curious. He must be clinically tone-deaf. She’d heard of the condition, but didn’t personally know anyone who suffered from it. Now that she thought about it, Horatio was in for a rough time if he couldn't stand music; every store, restaurant, practically any public place had some kind of background track playing these days. “That sucks.”

“Sucks?”

“Err, that’s unfortunate,” Jo said, not really willing to go into the etymology of that particular slang word right now.

Horatio frowned. “I would greatly appreciate it if you did not tell anyone else about this. Especially Henry.”

Jo was a little surprised; he sounded serious. “Okay, I won’t. But Henry’s your dad… doesn’t he know?”

Horatio’s hands fidgeted in his lap. “...No. I never told him.” He had the look of a man sifting through old memories. “He loves music. He’s a brilliant piano player, or so I've gathered. He started trying to teach me when I was eight years old. I just had to press the right keys at the right time, so I would pretend…” He seemed to realize he’d said more than he’d wanted to, and cleared his throat before settling back into his seat and closing himself off once more. “Anyway, we must all have our small secrets,” he muttered.

Jo could see the  _ Hotspur _ now; they’d arrived at their destination. “...I guess that's true,” she said, pulling up alongside the pier and parking the car.

Horatio seemed grateful to be on solid land again, though his nose soon crinkled with disgust. “What is that stench?”

“New York,” Jo said, shoving her keys into her pocket and starting down the pier.

Horatio turned his head towards the river. “No, this seems… worse than usual.”

Jo followed his gaze and saw what looked like a floating pile of junk. “Oh, it's a garbage barge,” she said. “That boat is full of people's trash. Rubbish, to you Brits. There’s so much of it they have to literally ship it out of the city.” She grimaced. “Unfortunately, it seems like we're downwind.”

Horatio was staring at the tugboat that pulled the barge along. It was close enough to the pier to be able to see the two men standing on the deck. Horatio’s gaze seemed to be trained on them, a complex mix of emotions flitting across his face. And it almost looked like one of the men was staring back.

Jo raised her eyebrows quizzically. “You okay?”

Horatio shook himself out of whatever had taken hold of him and turned his back on the barge. “I thought I saw someone I knew,” he said. “But that would be impossible.”

Jo felt a pang of sympathy for him. With one exception, everyone he’d ever known was long gone. “Hey, if you want to talk about it - ”

“I think we should perhaps start solving this murder,” Horatio said, firmly.

Jo decided to let it drop, and started walking towards the  _ Hotspur. _ “I solve the murder,” she said, “you tell me what that thingamajig is.” She pointed at a weird triangle-shaped net of rope that stretched taut from the middle mast to the outside edge of the ship.

“Those are the shrouds,” Horatio said, following her up the gangway and onto the deck of the ship. “They help to stabilize the masts. They facilitate easy access to the tops, as well.”

“Neat.” Jo figured by the end of the day, she’d be able to ace any sailing-related questions that might come up during trivia night at her local pub. Suddenly she paused, then held up a hand. “Wait. Listen.” She could hear noises coming from beneath their feet. “What’s down there?” she said, lowering her voice.

“The gun deck,” Horatio said, crouching. “That’s where the cannons are mounted. Though I doubt the full complement is still there, she’s riding rather light in the water.” He leaned his ear close to the deck. “Those noises sound faint,” he said. “They may be coming from the hold.”

Jo was already glad she’d brought him along. “How do we get there?”

“This way.” Horatio jogged across the deck, towards a square-shaped hole. Jo followed him down a steep set of stairs and into the dimly-lit belly of the ship. It was just as cramped down here as it was in the captain’s cabin, though she knew enough not to hit her head this time. Horatio had been right about the cannons; there were only six, compared to the twenty Henry had said the ship was supposed to have.

Horatio had stopped in front of a ceiling beam with a sign posted on it, warning entrants to watch their heads. He scowled at the sign. “Why is this necessary? Obviously the deckhead is low. You’d have to be blind not to see that, and in that case a sign wouldn't be very helpful.”

“Those are just there so we don't get sued.” The voice came from another hole in the floor; its owner climbed up to the gun deck a few moments later. It was a woman, small and thin, with large glasses and mouse-brown hair pulled back into a loose bun. She noticed the badge at Jo’s hip and smiled with relief. “Oh, good, you're the police. I guess you're here about the burglary?” She held out a nylon-gloved hand for Jo to shake. “I’m Rachel Matthews, the curator.”

“Detective Martinez,” Jo said. “This is Horatio… Morgan, he’s a consultant.” She glanced at Horatio, hoping that glance would communicate that she wanted him to play along. “Ms. Matthews, what exactly was stolen?”

“Oh, um, it’s ‘Dr. Matthews,’ actually,” she said, slightly sheepish. “Not to be picky or anything, but, you know… Anyway, they only took one item.” She ducked back down the hole. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Jo followed her down, faintly aware that Horatio was waiting for her to go first. She hopped off the ladder and took a look around. This must be the “hold” Horatio had been talking about. Whatever had been here before, now the walls were lined with glass cases containing historical memorabilia. In the center of the space was a faceless mannequin, dressed in what Jo now knew to be a British naval uniform. This one was decorated with gold trimming, and sported a shiny star-shaped medal pinned to the left breast and a red ribbon across the chest. Jo approached the mannequin, then paused.

Horatio stood stock-still, staring at the uniform with wide eyes. Jo suddenly understood. It was his.

Matthews cleared her throat from where she stood, next to one of the glass cases. “The only thing they took was the sword,” she said.

Jo walked over to the case and looked inside. There were two pegs in the back that had presumably once supported said sword, along with an information card. “Presented to Captain Horatio Hornblower by the Patriotic Fund,” she read, turning around to see the look on his face.

He seemed oddly concerned. “That sword was worth a hundred guineas!”

“Wow, you really know your stuff,” Matthews said, sounding genuinely impressed. “But it’s worth a lot more now.”

“How much?” Jo asked.

“Well, obviously I would say its historical value makes it priceless. But it might sell for around fifty thousand.” Matthews smiled at Horatio. “Dollars, not guineas.”

Horatio’s eyes widened. “Fifty thousand?!”

“So not small change,” Jo said under her breath. She examined the case, finding a small lock on the side. “This lock’s been picked, you can tell by the scratches. That means it probably wasn't an inside job. At the same time, this clearly isn't your average smash and grab.” She straightened. “Our guy knew exactly what he was looking for.”

Matthews fidgeted. “I’m not saying I suspect any of our staff… but I wouldn't rule out an inside job just because the lock was picked. We haven't had time to make copies of the key to these cases yet.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small silver key. “I have the only one.”

“So clearly, you do suspect your staff.”

“No, I… I just…” Matthews wrung her hands, then sighed. “One of our archivists just went missing. Her name’s Anna Cardinal. I heard her arguing on the phone; apparently, her family's in really big financial trouble. She knows how much the sword is worth.” She bit her lip. “...If it was her, which I'm not saying it was… you won't be too hard on her? Would it be possible for me to not press charges?”

Jo was silent for a moment. “Dr. Matthews, I hate to have to tell you this, but Anna Cardinal is dead. We’re here investigating her murder.”

Matthews gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh… Oh my god! That's horrible!” Her shoulders shook slightly. “Who could have…? Oh, no, that's what you're trying to figure out, I'm sorry. Do... Do you know why?”

“Not yet,” Jo said, “but it’s starting to look like that sword may be involved. Is there anything more you could tell us? Were any of your staff here yesterday, or the day before?”

“No… No one was here yesterday, as far as I know.” Matthews reached under her glasses and wiped her eyes. “I was the last one to leave on Monday night; I usually stay late. I think it was around ten o’clock.” She looked at Jo with a pleading gaze. “You’ll find out who did this, right? Anna… was such a kind person. I really liked working with her… I thought we might be friends. I'm sorry.” She sniffed.

Jo reached out and patted her shoulder. “We’re doing everything we can,” she said. “Thanks for your help.”

Horatio had apparently been wandering around the room while they talked, surveying the collection of what seemed to be his own possessions. Now he was stopped in front of a glass case in the corner. “Gibbon!”

Jo walked over to see what he was talking about. “A monkey?”

Horatio scowled at her. “An author.” He gazed fondly at a stack of books, the covers worn and the pages yellowed with age. “His prose is brilliant. Satirical, yet deeply intelligent…”

“Gibbon was a great writer, no doubt about it,” Matthews piped up, apparently able to pull herself together now that the historical artifacts were back in discussion. She sighed, slightly wistful. “It really is too bad that he was wrong about everything.”

Horatio whirled on her. “...What?”

Matthews waved her hand. “Oh, you know, his big theory about Rome’s collapse. It’s been pretty thoroughly disproved.”

Horatio looked legitimately angry. There was an icy sharpness in his gaze that actually made Jo feel a twinge of fear. “ _ A History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, _ ” he said. “I have read each of the six volumes innumerable times over. On long and arduous voyages they have been a source of comfort. Languishing on half-pay, they were the only possessions I could not bring myself to pawn away. I lost my greatcoat to Duddingstone before I would give up one of those books.” He towered over the diminutive historian. “And now you are telling me that every word within them was written in error?!”

Matthews quivered. “I’m sorry…?”

“So,” Jo said, rather loudly, “this is an old British ship, right? How did it end up in New York?”

Thankfully, this seemed to be enough to distract Horatio from the besmirching of his precious Gibbon, and Matthews from her brush with imminent doom. “At the end of the Napoleonic Wars, the British Navy sold her to a US shipping company,” she said. “She’s been in the owner’s family since then. It was only just recently that they decided to donate her to the city for historical preservation.” She gestured around the room. “This exhibit is dedicated to her most famous captain, Horatio Hornblower. He’s right up there with Nelson as one of the all-time naval greats.”

“Is that so?” Jo glanced at Horatio, who was looking a little flustered and clearing his throat.

Matthews ran a hand along the wooden side of the ship. “Honestly, this job is like a dream come true for me,” she said. “My great-great-great-great grandfather served on this ship with him.”

Horatio blinked, realization dawning on him. “...Matthews?”

“Yes?”

“Err…” Horatio scrambled to save himself; he’d obviously been thinking about his old crewmate and not the curator, but that would be difficult to explain. He pointed to one of the glass cases. “This cigarillo case has been incorrectly labeled. It did not come into my- err, Hornblower’s possession until 1812.”

Matthews examined the case. “Really? How can you tell?”

“...It was a wedding present from the Duke of Wellington,” Horatio said, somewhat reluctant now and probably regretting having pointed it out. “See there, a pair of crossed dead Frenchmen, mounted on a field of dead Frenchmen. That was his regimental crest at the time.* Wellington did not even know of m- Hornblower’s existence until I- he married his sister Barbara Wellesley. So there would have been no reason for him to make such a gift before April 18th, 1812.”

“Interesting theory,” Matthews said, thankfully seeming more curious than angry. “I’ll have somebody look into it, see if we can find it in the wedding registry.” She turned to Horatio. “Jeez, you’re practically an expert. If you ever get tired of solving crimes, you can come work for me!”

Horatio looked hilariously taken aback. “Oh, ah, well, I… appreciate the offer, madam, but - ”

“She’s joking,” Jo said.

Matthews gave a sheepish smile. “Only partly… we’re actually crazy understaffed.” Her smile faded. “And now with Anna gone…”

There was silence for a few moments. Jo felt like this would be a good place to end the interview, so she pulled one of her cards out of her wallet and handed it to Matthews. “Here. You can reach me at this number if anything happens that might be related to the case.”

“Thank you,” Matthews said, looking at the card and placing it in her pocket. “Do you need me to show you back up to the main deck?”

Jo shook her head and glanced over at Horatio, smiling. “I think we're alright.”

The two of them made their way back up to the open air, and Jo took a deep breath. “It was so stuffy in there,” she said. “How did you stand it?”

Horatio only shrugged. He’d been remarkably talkative so far; maybe he’d reached his word limit for the day. Or maybe the coffee was wearing off. It was probably more caffeine than he was used to.

The silence was broken by a shrill ringing sound, and Jo had the pleasure of watching Horatio nearly jump out of his skin.  _ “SON OF A BITCH!” _ he roared, clawing at his shorts.

Jo’s jaw dropped. She guessed it was true what they said about sailors and swearing. But the ferocity of the curse surprised her; he must have been really shaken.

Horatio eventually managed to pull a small object out of his pocket and thrust it out towards Jo, his eyes wide. “What is this thing and what is it doing?!” he cried. “Why is it making that noise?!”

“Easy!” Jo said, holding up her hands. “It’s a cell phone. Somebody's calling you.”

“Cell… phone?”

“Yeah. You use it to talk to people who are somewhere else.” The phone was still ringing, so she nodded towards it. “Just flip it open, hold it up to your ear, and say ‘hello.’”

Horatio looked at her suspiciously, but did as she’d said, holding the phone about three inches away from his head. “...Hello…?”

“Horatio! Where are you?!”

Jo could hear the voice from where she was standing; it was Henry, and he sounded very upset. “It’s been nearly three hours! Abe said you were going for a walk! Has something happened?! Do you know where you are?! Do you need me to come get you?!”

Horatio just stood there holding the phone, slack-jawed. Jo took it from his fingers. “He’s with me,” she said, “so take some deep breaths, please.”

“Oh. Jo. Thank goodness.” She could actually hear Henry taking the aforementioned deep breaths. “What is he doing with you?”

“We ran into each other, I figured he’d be helpful given our crime scene. Don’t tell me you’ve been waiting up for him?”

Henry sighed. “No, Abe insisted I go to the morgue. I called him just now to ask if Horatio had made it back to the shop yet, and when he said no…”

Jo shook her head, smiling a little. “Have you started Anna Cardinal’s autopsy yet?”

“I have indeed,” Henry said, brightening, “and I’ve made some very interesting findings. Would you care to stop by and see for yourself?”

“I’d be delighted,” Jo said, jokingly assuming a posh accent and then dropping it. “See you in ten.”

She hung up the phone and handed it back to a still-astonished Horatio. “...How is this possible?” he asked, looking at the cheap flip phone in his hand like it was a miracle from God.

Jo shrugged. “Don’t ask me, I don’t know how it works.” She started walking down the pier. “Now let’s get you back to Henry before he has a heart attack.”

Horatio looked like he really wanted to discuss phones some more, but he took the hint and followed behind her. “Where are we going?”

“The Office of the Chief Medical Examiner,” Jo said. “Or, as Henry likes to call it, ‘the largest collection of slightly-chilled corpses in the world.’”

Horatio made a faintly disgusted face. “What on earth are they collecting corpses for? Surely those grave-robbing academics know all they need to know about the human anatomy by now.”

“Um, not sure what you’re talking about. But the M.E. conducts autopsies, to figure out how people died. They help with the criminal investigations when it's murder.”

“And why would Henry be in such a place?”

Jo smirked. “He works there. In fact, he’s probably opening up our victim and poking around her insides right now.”

“I cannot believe it,” Horatio said, disdainfully. “Henry is a doctor, and a bleeding-heart humanitarian idealist with too many  _ feelings _ for his own good. Such a temperament is ill-suited for such a morbid occupation.”

Jo realized then that the Henry Horatio knew was the one from two hundred years ago; before his curse, and before all the lies he’d had to tell to survive. Henry was slowly opening up to her, had gone so far as to trust her with his secret, but there was always some part of him that would remain closed-off, some things that no one else would ever know. It made her vaguely sad to think about what might have been had he just lived a normal life. “Yeah, well, people change,” was all she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The design of Wellington’s regimental crest is not historically accurate and is in fact a reference to Blackadder the Third. Because that is my all-time favorite version of Wellington.


	6. Chapter 6

Henry looked up from the object in his hands when he heard the doors behind him open. “Good morning Detective,” he said, turning around to greet Jo as she entered. “Horatio.” He was trying not to appear too worked up in front of Lucas, but the sight of the curly-haired young man trailing behind Jo, safe and sound, was a massive relief.

Lucas looked at Horatio, then at Henry. “Woah,” he breathed. “This is just like that issue of Soul Slasher Reloaded where he had to fight his own clone.” In response to Jo’s raised eyebrow, the only explanation he offered was, “Short-lived spin-off series.”

Henry sighed. “Horatio is not my clone, Lucas.”

“Too good to be true,” Lucas said ruefully. He glanced at the younger man. “So then, who is he?”

Henry scrambled for an explanation; he cursed himself for not thinking of one earlier. “He is my - ”

“Brother,” Jo said quickly. “Just flew in from across the pond. Isn't that right?” She looked at Horatio pointedly.

“Ha - h’m.” Horatio was busy staring in horror at the thing in Henry’s hands. “What... is that?”

“Ah. This,” Henry said, lifting up the organ, “is a lung. Anna Cardinal’s, to be exact.”

Jo didn’t seem too surprised. “Why are you holding it?”

Henry couldn't help smiling a little. “Well, that’s because - ”

“Hold the phone!” Lucas was looking at him with wide eyes. “You never told me you had a brother!”

Henry placed the lung back on the tray beside him, giving the assistant M.E. a slightly annoyed look. “There are many things I choose not to tell you, Lucas.”

Lucas’ shoulders slumped. “...That's definitely true.”

Having at least partly gotten over the shock of seeing Henry holding a disembodied human organ, Horatio was looking Lucas over with a critical gaze. He seemed to notice, as Henry had, the breakfast-pastry crumbs lodged in the man’s beard, and through extraordinary strength of will managed not to say anything about it. “...I don’t believe we've been introduced.”

“Wow, you talk like him and everything!” Lucas grinned and vigorously shook Horatio’s hand. “Lucas Wahl. I'm Dr. Morgan’s - ”

“Assistant,” Henry said.

“ - partner,” Lucas said simultaneously. A moment later, he seemed to deflate. “Assistant. Right. That’s - that is what I meant to say.”

Horatio wiped his hand on his shorts.

“What about the lung, Henry?” Jo asked. She was apparently not wasting any time.

“Ah yes,” Henry said, picking the lung up again and holding it out towards her. “Now, if you look along the lower portion of the lung, here,” he traced the tissue with his finger, “you can see signs of inflammation consistent with the very beginning stages of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.”

“COPD,” Jo said, looking at the lung with some interest but keeping well away from it. “But Anna was twenty-seven; isn't that something older people get?”

Henry smiled. “You are correct… in the typical case. However, Anna had something called Alpha-1 lung disease, more commonly known as genetic COPD. It manifests earlier in a person's life, usually when they are between thirty and forty years old.” He placed the lung back on its tray. “She may have had trouble breathing after strenuous exercise, or exhibited other similar symptoms.”

“Huh… it’s genetic?” Jo looked thoughtful. “That means she probably has relatives with the same condition, right?”

“It’s quite possible.”

Jo nodded. “We talked to the curator of the  _ Hotspur _ -museum; she said Anna’s family was in dire financial straits. Maybe one of them couldn’t pay their medical bills.”

“Perhaps.” Henry moved over to the table where the body lay under a blue sheet. He lifted it back just enough to expose the severed stump of the neck. “I’ve also been able to determine the type of blade that was used as the murder weapon.”

Jo’s expression seemed to alter subtly, like she was putting on a poker face. “Oh really?”

Henry felt somewhat disappointed. “...You’ve already found it, haven’t you?” This must be what it felt like whenever he snatched a break in the case away from Detective Hanson with one of his deductions. He found he didn’t particularly like the taste of his own medicine.

“Well, no,” Jo said, “but I have a theory about what it is. So please, continue. Let me know if I’m right.”

“...Very well,” Henry said, a little bemused. He pointed to the edge of the neck. “Lucas, in a bit of excellent investigative work,” the assistant M.E. brightened considerably at that, “found tiny flakes of metal embedded in the tissue here. Most likely the integrity of the blade has deteriorated over time. The mass spectrometer determined the metal’s composition to be consistent with a type of steel that was used to make weapons for the British military during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. A bayonet couldn’t make this kind of clean slice. So the murder weapon was likely an antique officer’s sword, possibly dating back to the War of 1812 or the Napoleonic Wars.”

Jo smiled. “Well, that makes things easy, then.” She glanced briefly at Horatio. “A sword that belonged to some hot-shot naval officer named Hornblower went missing from the ship museum right around the time of the murder. The curator thinks it’s worth at least fifty grand.”

“Hm, that would seem to fit the bill,” Henry said, glancing at Horatio as well. The way the younger man was so conspicuously not making eye contact with anyone was faintly amusing, though Henry found he sympathized. It was awkward at best whenever something in a case ended up connecting with his own past. He’d like to spare Horatio that, but unfortunately he had a job to do. “Assuming he knew of its value, our murderer has likely already sold the sword, perhaps to someone on the black antiques market. If we can track it down, it may be a valuable source of evidence.”

“‘Black antiques market?’” Lucas repeated, slightly incredulous. “Is that really a thing that exists? Please tell me it is.”

“You’d be surprised how cutthroat the business can be,” Henry said, all mock seriousness. He paused as an idea came to him. “Speaking of cutthroat… perhaps something might be gained from a visit to the Frenchman.”

“Ichika Matsui?” Jo said. “The antique weapons dealer?”

Henry blinked. “...Is that the Frenchman’s real name?” Even Abe had never been able to find that out.

Jo grinned. “Well, I did save her life. Us girls gotta stick together.”

Horatio frowned. “...So this ‘Frenchman’ is neither a man nor French. And you think she has my- the sword?”

“If she doesn't, she’ll know where to find it,” Henry said, gently drawing the blue sheet back over the neck. “And that sword may just lead us to Anna’s killer.”

Jo gave him a knowing look. “That ‘us’ means you're coming with me, doesn’t it?”

Henry spread his hands. “No getting anything past you, it would seem.”

Horatio glanced uncomfortably at the blue-sheeted body. “...Shall I just stay here, then?”

Henry blinked. “Oh. Ah…” He hadn't thought about how Horatio was going to get back to the shop if he went off investigating. “Not unless you want to. I can call a cab…”

“Actually, why don’t we take him with us?” Jo suggested, glancing briefly at Lucas. “He’s, uh, kind of an expert, after all. You’d recognize that sword if you saw it, right, Horatio?”

“I believe I would,” Horatio said. “If I remember correctly, it had seed pearls in the pommel, a gold hilt, and an inscription on the blade; something or other about the capture of the  _ Natividad _ .” He grimaced. “The blasted writing let Duddingstone get away with taking it for only forty guineas.”

Henry, having patronized Duddingstone’s descendents himself on the odd occasion throughout the years, was shocked. “You…” He trailed off when he noticed Lucas looking at him curiously. “Ah, Hornblower... was forced to pawn his own sword?”

Horatio shrugged. “I can’t say I know anything about how things are now, but back then a Navy captain had to purchase his own stores. If he wished for any good favor at all, he was expected to have fine food and wine for visiting admirals. And I- Hornblower had just been made captain of a ship of the line,  _ Sutherland. _ He had to crew her, which meant filching landsmen from prison and spending money on advertisements in the local papers. Not that they did much good.” He sighed. “After all that, he could barely afford the pinchbeck buckles on his shoes.”

Lucas’ curious gaze was on Horatio now. “I feel like I'm looking at a walking History Channel show,” he said. “‘Pinchbeck’... is that even a real word?”

Horatio frowned. “What is the History Channel? Some New York waterway I haven't heard of?”

“Whaaat?” Lucas’ jaw dropped open in a comical expression of disbelief. “Did you seriously just think ‘channel’ like the English Channel?! Haven't you heard of TV?”

“No. Should I have?”

This was rapidly spiraling out of control, and Henry knew he needed to step in. “Horatio is… somewhat sheltered.”

“Sheltered?! How sheltered do you have to be to not know what TV is?!” Lucas seemed to think of something. “Oh, hey, that makes sense, though… it would totally explain why you don't get any of my references, Doc. Did you two grow up in a cult or something? Amish people in England? Luddites?”

“No,” Henry said testily. “We just never had a TV. Satisfied?”

Lucas pouted. “No, not really. But you're not gonna tell me anything else, are you?”

“Indeed I am not.” Henry peeled off his gloves and slipped out of his lab coat. The crisis had been, at least for the moment, averted. He’d have to come up with a more solid backstory, but that could wait. “Now then, Horatio,” he said, a hint of mischief appearing in his smile. “How’d you like to meet the woman with the largest collection of medieval maces in the tri-state area?”

Horatio grimaced. “I think I’d like to be wearing a suit of armor.”

Henry chuckled and grasped his shoulder, walking him and an amused Jo out of the morgue. “Trust me, that wouldn't save you.”

* * *

After a short drive in Jo’s car, they reached The Frenchman’s place of business and filed inside. Horatio cast wary glances at the variety of blades that lined the display cases and walls. “Give me a couple of men and a barrel of salt beef and I could defend this place for a month,” he muttered. 

“Ah, Doctor Morgan. Detective Martinez.” A small, slight woman in a black dress - the Frenchman - approached from the back of the shop. She looked Horatio up and down. “And a new face.” She smiled. The expression was like a cat’s; playful and dangerous. “How’s Abe doing these days?”

Henry was glad she seemed, outwardly at least, to have recovered from her encounter with the murderer who had been the reason for his last visit to this shop. He felt a bit selfish asking her to become involved in yet another case, but in the pursuit of justice, one does what one must. “Abe is well, and I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear you’ve asked after him. We were simply wondering if you had any early nineteenth century British naval officers’ swords in your collection.”

The Frenchman rolled her eyes. “You might as well ask McDonald's if they sell hamburgers. Here.” She led them to a rack in the back right corner of the room. “Take your pick. I’ve got more in the back.”

The rack boasted at least ten swords, many of them with lion-headed pommels and golden hilts. The Frenchman pulled one from its scabbard and traced the blade with her finger. “The nicer ones usually go for one to two thousand a pop. Not exactly big-money items, but they keep the lights on.”

Jo looked over the row of hilts. “We were actually wondering if you'd know anything about one specific sword, with a somewhat larger price tag.”

The Frenchman raised an eyebrow. “And what sword would that be?”

“The one that used to belong to Horatio Hornblower. Covered in pearls and gold, with a nice little inscription.” Jo glanced to the side. “May or may not have been used to decapitate someone.”

The Frenchman grimaced. “Eugh. Sorry, I don’t have it.” She gave Henry a meaningful look. “Of course, I would know if it came on the market.” She shrugged. “But I haven't heard boo.”

Henry blinked. “...So no one’s tried to sell it? Legally or…”

“Otherwise?” the Frenchman added, with a brief glance at Jo. “No. Sorry. I'll look out for it, though, and let you guys know if it surfaces.”

“We appreciate it,” Jo said with a half-smile; she seemed disappointed. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” The Frenchman moved to replace the sword she was holding in its scabbard.

“Wait,” Horatio said suddenly. “Ah, may I see that?”

The Frenchman handed it to him hilt-first. “Certainly.”

Henry studied the sword from over Horatio’s shoulder. It had a plain hilt decorated only with thin lines of gold, and it seemed well-used, with various nicks and scratches in the hand guard. At the same time, however, it looked… newer than the other swords in the Frenchman’s collection, remarkably untouched by the ravages of time.

Horatio held it almost fondly, a hint of melancholy showing in his expression. “How did you get this…?”

The Frenchman looked bemused. “Someone sold it to me about a month ago. Interesting, isn’t it? It’s in both great and terrible condition. Whoever owned it must have gotten into a lot of scrapes. But it's been perfectly preserved since then. Almost hard to believe it's two hundred years old.”

Jo looked over Horatio’s shoulder. “Think it has something to do with the case?”

Horatio almost reluctantly handed the sword back to the Frenchman. “...Most likely not. That sword belonged to a captain named William Bush.” The melancholy had morphed into real sadness. “He was… killed in action, in the final days of the war.”

“Huh. That’s funny.” The Frenchman placed the sword back in its scabbard. “That was the name of the guy who brought it in. William Bush.”

Horatio’s eyes widened. “...What?”

“Yeah,” the Frenchman said. “I remember him because he was a little odd.”

Henry wasn't sure why, but he sensed that this could be important. If not to the case, then to Horatio. “Odd? In what sense?”

The Frenchman laid a finger on her chin. “Well, he looked kind of blue-collar; you get guys like that occasionally, who find something in their grandad's attic, you know. Real tough-looking, despite being on the short side. But he had a British accent, and was very polite. Called me ‘ma’am’ a couple of times. And he filled out his paperwork in cursive.” She frowned. “His handwriting was terrible, though.”

Horatio was staring at her, a wide range of emotions showing on his face. His expression eventually settled into something like fear, mixed with hope. “...Could… could I see it?”

The Frenchman glanced at Henry. “Dr. Morgan knows my policy.”

“...Not without a subpoena,” Henry said with a sigh.

The Frenchman spread her hands. “Sorry. But I don’t want people thinking they can steal my client list anytime they please.”

Henry saw the look of desperation on Horatio’s face; he could guess the reason for it, and he knew he had to do everything he could to help. Unfortunately, he couldn’t do a lot. “Technically speaking,” he said, “someone who sells to you is not, per se, a client.”

The Frenchman raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit of a stretch.”

Horatio seemed to be bracing himself. “He… might be an old friend of mine. Someone I thought was lost forever.” He swallowed. “...Please. I have to know.”

His plea seemed to soften the Frenchman’s gaze, but she didn't say anything.

Jo hooked her thumbs into her pants pockets. “I’ll owe you one. A favor from a detective’s gotta be worth something, right?”

The Frenchman was silent for a few moments more. Then she shook her head. “You  _ all _ owe me, big time.” She pointed a threatening finger at Henry. “And you don't get any more favors. I'm cutting you off.”

Henry sighed. “Understandable.”

The Frenchman turned and led them behind the desk at the back of the shop. While Horatio went to look at the papers she produced from a drawer, Henry hung back, giving Jo a curious look. “Thank you.”

Jo exhaled heavily, rolling her eyes. “Don’t mention it.”

“It just seemed,” Henry continued, “slightly out of character for you.”

“Did you not hear what I just said?”

“You’re usually the one who wants everything to be above-board.”

Jo watched Horatio inspecting the papers. “This Bush guy… we might have seen him today. Horatio said he thought he saw someone he knew.”

“But that would be impossible,” Henry said, slowly.

“Unless the same thing that happened to Horatio also happened to his friend.” Jo turned her head to look at him. “What are the chances?”

“Not very good, I would assume. Of course, we don't even know what happened to Horatio.” Henry watched the younger man bend over the papers, and he felt a pain in his chest. “Most likely we’re just getting his hopes up. I of all people ought to know how terrible the disappointment will be. I shouldn't have let him…”

Jo stopped him with a shake of her head. “Horatio’s lost his friend before, and realistically, the guy’s not getting any more dead. A little something to hope for couldn’t hurt.”

Henry saw Horatio give the papers back to the Frenchman and turn to rejoin the group. “In my experience,” he said, quietly, “it is sometimes hope which hurts the most.”

Jo frowned at him, a chastisement for souring the mood. But she gave him a gentle pat on the back. “Maybe this won’t be one of those times.”

The Frenchman was walking Horatio back towards them, conspicuously holding a sharpened dirk in her right hand. “I think that should conclude our business for today,” she said pleasantly. “As you can see, I have paying customers to attend to.”

“Wait.” Henry, moved by some impulse, reached for the rack of swords and grasped the plain hilt. “How much for this?”

Horatio, who had up until now seemed to be in a bit of a daze, looked shocked. The Frenchman quirked a small smile. “Seven hundred.”

Henry reached into the pockets of his coat and produced his checkbook. Horatio started to protest. “There’s no need to - ”

“Here you are,” Henry said, filling out a check and giving it to the Frenchman. She smirked. “Nice doing business with you. Tell Abe I said hi.”

After the three of them left the shop, Henry handed the sword to Horatio, who took it without a word.

It wasn't until they were all seated in Jo’s car, Henry and Horatio next to each other in the back, that the detective broke the silence. “So what was on that receipt?”

Horatio sat quietly for a few more seconds. “...An address,” he said. “It was written in Bush’s hand.”

“Are you certain?” Henry asked, gently.

“Of course I'm certain!” Horatio snapped. “I spent years reading that man’s terrible reports, I think I can recognize his bloody writing!” He fell silent again, looking down at the sword that he now gripped in his hands.

Henry reached over and placed a hand on Horatio’s shoulder. This time, he didn't flinch or move away. As Jo started the car and began to drive, Henry moved his hand in slow circles over the bony shoulder blade. Under his touch, Horatio began to relax. The wrath of moments before faded from his features, leaving him looking unsure, tentative. Vulnerable.

Henry was filled with a warm feeling. Despite what he’d told Jo, he’d never quite been able to give up on hope.


	7. Chapter 7

After departing from the Frenchman’s, Jo and Henry dropped Horatio off with Abe, leaving him to mull over recent developments while they went back to the precinct to continue with the case. Henry wanted to spend more time with him, especially since he felt they’d just had a rare bonding moment, but he was still “on the clock,” as it were, and didn't relish the berating he’d get from Lieutenant Reece if he were to skip out on the case now.

He and Jo arrived at the precinct to find a somewhat annoyed Detective Hanson waiting for them. “Alright,” he said, rising from his desk, “you two lovebirds are cute and all, but that does not excuse you from runnin’ around after some fancy sword and leavin’ me to sit and twiddle my thumbs without so much as a ‘how d’you do.’”

Henry frowned slightly. Lovebirds? He was used to taking this sort of ribbing from Abe, but he found he appreciated it much less in the workplace.

Jo seemed unfazed. “Oh, boo hoo. Turns out the killer hasn't sold the sword, so that was a bust. Did you at least do something productive?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact. Crime guys dredged our vic's head out of the river.” Hanson produced a sheet of paper. “And I found Anna’s mother and two younger sisters; they live in Queens. I was gonna pay ‘em a visit.”

“Alright,” Jo said, turning around, “let's go.”

Hanson folded his arms. “I don’t think I want you two comin’ with me.”

Jo gave him an unamused look. “Don’t be a baby, Mike.”

“Oh, excuse me for not being excited about having my thunder stolen by Sherlock over here,” Hanson griped.

Henry smiled and shook his head. “Not to worry, Detective Hanson; as a matter of fact, I’d like to return to the morgue to examine the victim's head.”

Hanson made a face. “Have fun with that. It's pretty soggy, not gonna lie.” The three of them went together to the elevators, and Hanson pressed the down button. “By the way, Doc,” he said, “Jo told me your brother’s in town?”

Henry glanced over at Jo, who shrugged helplessly. Hanson must have spotted them with Horatio back at the crime scene and asked her about him. That would explain why she’d been so hasty to explain Horatio to Lucas; she’d already been forced to create a cover story, and needed it to be consistent. “Ah, yes,” he said. “He’ll be staying with me for a while.”

“Gotcha.” The doors opened, and Hanson stepped into the elevator. “So, uh… is there any particular reason why he was wearin’ some kind of Revolutionary War outfit?”

Henry looked to Jo, hoping Hanson wouldn't notice. Jo’s expression remained carefully neutral. “Yeah, Henry,” she said, “you never told me why that was.”

Ah. So he’d have to make something up. Luckily, he’d become disturbingly good at lying. “Horatio is something of a historical enthusiast,” he said, although in reality he found it hard to picture Horatio enthused about anything. “He had just come into possession of an early nineteenth century naval uniform, and the Fourth of July seemed like a socially-acceptable time to wear it.”

Hanson snickered. “Hate to break it to ya, Doc, but there’s no socially-acceptable time.” At least he seemed to believe the excuse. “You gotta let us meet him. Maybe bring him along next time we all go out? You got any plans for tonight?”

Henry wasn't at all sure how Horatio would respond to such an invitation; he suspected it might make him uncomfortable. He himself had only recently begun attending these group drinking sessions, and then only occasionally, to indulge his colleagues. But since Hanson was so curious, he doubted he could duck out of this one. He shrugged. “I’ll be sure to ask him.”

Hanson gave him a wry side glance. “Alright, doc, I’ll hold ya to that.” The elevator had reached the ground floor, and he and Jo stepped out of the car. Henry, headed down to the basement level, watched them through the closing doors as they walked away; Hanson seemed to be talking excitedly and rubbing his hands together. Already scheming about their night out, no doubt.

Henry sighed. Now that he’d started opening up to his colleagues, the side effect of his former distance was that they seemed to be unreasonably interested in him and his personal life. He could only hope meeting Horatio once would satisfy them, but, pessimistically, he felt like that wouldn't be the case.  
  


* * *

After Henry and Jo left to return to the police station, Abe turned to Horatio and shrugged. “Sorry for telling on ya. But you have to admit three hours was kind of a long time. You scared the pants off Dad.”

Horatio didn’t really have any interest in the state of Henry’s trousers. He walked straight to the counter at the back of the shop, put down Bush’s sword, and picked up the first pencil and piece of paper within reach. He scribbled the address he’d gotten from the Frenchman, then stared at the paper in his hands. 1541 Fulton Street, Apartment 3B, Brooklyn. Waiting for him at that address might be… He couldn’t even bring himself to think about it. It was impossible. Absurd. And yet... wasn’t this entire situation in which he now found himself absurd? What was one more layer of absurdity, really? He felt he was on the verge of losing his grip on reality, that the sky could turn yellow tomorrow and he would simply shrug his shoulders and go about his day. No, there had to be some logic left in the universe. And logically speaking, the chances of both himself and Bush being magically transported to the same future time, in the same place, were infinitesimally small. Impossible. He was a fool for thinking otherwise. He shook his head, then folded the paper and placed it in his pocket.

As he did so, he fingers brushed against the hard surface of the folded cell phone, and he felt a resurgence of curiosity. He still wanted to know how this small object was able to project the voices of people who weren't even nearby. As someone who’d struggled his entire adult life to be heard throughout large ships over gales and the boom of guns, his mind reeled with the possibilities this technology could afford. He had to know how it worked and what was being done with it. He whirled around and accosted Abe, the phone in his hand. “I have some questions.”

The old man blinked. “...Okay. What about?”

“This.” Horatio flipped the thing open and started peering at it, too curious even to keep his eyes on Abe. “How does it operate? What carries the sound over such great distances? What are the numbers for? Is each device assigned a number? Is that how you determine which device you're communicating with? I would assume the military also makes use of these. Communication must be instantaneous! No need for despatches, or signals, even. Imagine the precision with which operations could be carried out… What is the range of this device? Could it reach as far as England?” His ideas were running away with him and spilling out of his mouth.

Abe held up his hands. “Woah, slow down there, bud. First of all, I'm afraid I don't have a clue what goes on inside those things. Nobody does, really, ‘cept the guys who make ‘em.”

Horatio felt frustrated and disappointed. “So you’re all simply content to treat this like magic and let someone else bother about understanding what it is?”

Abe shrugged. “Sure. It takes years and a degree in computer science just to get it to stop autocorrecting ‘Jo’ to ‘John.’ So if it’s working, why question it?” He placed a medium-sized box on a nearby table and began inspecting its contents. “As for the rest of your questions, or at least the ones I could pick out of that mess… yes, the numbers are how you call people, every phone has its own number. Yes, the military uses them, as does pretty much every other human being on earth, with the exception of babies, dead people, and Henry. And you can call practically anywhere in the world.” He frowned. “Unless you're in a subway tunnel, then good frickin’ luck.”

Horatio didn’t know what a “subway tunnel” was. “I shall have to take your word for it.”

Abe made a dismissive gesture towards the phone in Horatio’s hand. “Anyway, that thing is just a burner I got to train Henry to use them. Phones look more like this these days.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flat black rectangle. It resembled the devices Horatio remembered seeing while he’d been out walking that morning.

Horatio inspected its blank surface. “Where are the numbers?”

Abe grinned. “This is gonna blow your mind, isn’t it?” He pressed a small button near the bottom of the rectangle, and suddenly an image appeared on its face. The image was sharp and remarkably clear, more than any drawing. And it was faintly glowing. More remarkable still, Abe swiped his thumb across the image, and it changed.

Horatio could only stare at it, astounded.

Abe looked faintly smug. “I thought so.”  
  


* * *

Rachel Matthews tapped the end of her pen against her chin, lost in thought. It was almost five; she could probably start wrapping things up soon before going home. She’d made the captain’s cabin on the  _ Hotspur _ her temporary office while the museum's dockside facilities were still being renovated, and though she wouldn't admit it aloud, sitting at the expansive wooden desk made her feel really cool. Less so the stack of paperwork in front of her. She was, at heart, a historian first and a curator second, so the administrative work that was now a part of her job tended to pile up. She looked at the first page on the stack and froze; it was an acquisitions receipt, written by Anna.

The cabin's close quarters, which were usually no problem, suddenly felt like they were suffocating her. She put down her pen, rose from the desk, and darted from the cabin, emerging onto the quarterdeck. She rushed to the port rail and took a few deep breaths. She could feel herself tearing up, so she reached up under her glasses to rub at her eyes.

When she finished, she looked out over the pier and blinked. There was a man standing there, looking up at her. Startled, she adjusted her glasses and took a step back from the rail. She held still for a moment, thinking that if he knew she’d seen him staring he might go away. But instead, the opposite happened; he took a few steps closer to the ship. “Excuse me, miss,” he shouted up to her. He had a rough voice that carried easily up to the deck, and he seemed to walk with a slight limp.

Matthews hesitantly reapproached the rail, more embarrassed about having been caught crying than anything else. “...Yes?”

The man was wearing jeans, even in this hot weather. He wasn’t a big man, but his plain shirt hugged well-formed muscles, and he had the kind of ruggedly handsome face that Matthews drooled over whenever she caught herself flipping through one of those sexy-firemen calendars at the mall. He had his thumbs hooked into his front pockets; he shifted his stance and moved to clasp his hands behind his back, but then seemed to catch himself and his hands went back to his pockets. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.” He had a clear southern-English accent, though Matthews could pick out subtle hints of New York influence.

“Um, okay, sure,” she said, now leaning slightly over the rail. “What is it?”

The man glanced briefly up and down the pier. “This… may seem like an odd request. There was a man here this morning, and I'm trying to find him. I think he was wearing a blue shirt… he has curly brown hair, tied back. Sharp nose, cheekbones, probably dark circles under his eyes from not sleeping, not eating, or both...”

Matthews knew exactly who he was describing. “Horatio… Morgan, I think? Yeah, he was here.” Suddenly it occurred to her that she had no idea what this man’s intentions were. She gripped the rail a little harder. “...How do you know him?”

The man smiled, and his whole broad, weathered face lit up. “He’s an old friend. We haven't seen each other in a long time.” The excitement pouring off of him was palpable, even at this distance. “Do you know where I can find him?”

Matthews couldn't help but be convinced of his sincerity. “Not really,” she said, “but he said he was consulting for the NYPD. You could try there. I think the detective’s name was Jo Martinez.”

The man nodded thoughtfully, seemingly committing the name to memory. Then he smiled up at her and made a quick gesture, raising the knuckles of his right hand to his forehead as though touching an invisible hat. “You have my thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Matthews said. The gesture reminded her of an old Royal Navy salute. She blinked. Actually, it  _ was _ an old Royal Navy salute. She supposed if this guy was a friend of the knowledgeable consultant from earlier, he might know a few things himself. She smiled and returned the gesture.

The man’s smile had a bittersweet note to it. He reached out and ran a hand along the side of the ship. “Is this the original  _ Hotspur _ ?”

Matthews leaned over the rail excitedly. She knew it; he  _ was _ another fellow history nerd! “Well, naturally she's undergone some heavy restoration,” she said. “Even so, the old girl looks pretty good considering it's been two hundred years since she was commissioned.”

“You’d hardly believe it,” the man said, wistfully. “Is she seaworthy?”

“Actually, yeah,” Matthews said. “Sort of.” She bounced on her toes. “We’re planning on sailing her a little ways down the Hudson to celebrate the museum's grand opening next week. It’s gonna be  _ so _ cool. You and your friend should come!”

The man backed away from the ship. “Perhaps we shall,” he said, and there was something so earnest and hopeful about the way he said it. He nodded to her, then turned and began walking back up the pier. Matthews couldn't help but stand there and watch him go. She kind of wished she’d gotten his name.

Or his phone number.  
  


* * *

When the clock in the morgue reached five, Henry shuffled his paperwork into a neat pile, closed the files he’d been working on, and stood up from his desk, wrapping his scarf around his neck. There hadn’t been much to glean from Anna Cardinal’s severed head, apart from the usual feeling of sadness at a life cut so horribly short. So he’d moved on to a few simpler (or rather, less mysterious) cases, and from there to the ever-present administrative matters which demanded his attention. But the whole time he'd been distracted by thoughts of how Horatio was holding up. The long hours had given him some time to puzzle about how Horatio had been transported here in the first place, though he had nothing more than wild guesses which yielded no answers. 

Lucas intercepted him as he left his office, before he could reach the doors to the main hall. “Hey, are you coming out to the pub with us tonight?”

“The pub?” Henry was slightly taken aback; it had always been his experience that Americans preferred to gather in bars, and his coworkers here and at the precinct had proved to be no different.

Lucas shrugged. “Yeah, The Boatswain’s Daughter or something British and old-timey like that. Jo’s idea, actually.” His eyebrows rose meaningfully. “Thought it might make your history geek brother feel more at home...”

Henry sighed. “I haven’t even asked him if he wants to go, Lucas.”

“Okay, okay. But could you maybe, like, strongly suggest?” Lucas looked tentatively hopeful. “There are so many shows I have to tell him about. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“And not about your work?”

“...We were planning on meeting there at seven.”

Henry gave him a slightly irked look. “I will see what I can do. But given that you’ve just admitted you're going to assail him with film trivia, don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t want to come.”

Lucas looked faintly resigned. “Yeah, well, given your attendance record with these things, my expectations were kinda low anyway.”

Henry could think of no good way to respond to that without sounding insincere, so he simply assured Lucas that at least he would see him tonight and left the morgue before the conversation could continue.

His bike ride back to the shop was thankfully uneventful; he’d died far too many times just trying to make that particular commute, and it only got worse with the passing of time. In the fifties, he’d ridden the bicycle to the hospital every day and had only been the victim of vehicular homicide once in the entire decade. Of course, the cars had been slower back then, but he refused to believe the recent uptick in his bike deaths was caused by anything other than distracted driving. Those so-called “millennials” and their texting… he remembered telling Abe when the first car phones started coming out that they were a terrible idea. And lo, phones in cars had since become a national epidemic.

He was still thinking about cell phones when he reached the shop. He’d always held a low opinion of the devices, but he was slowly coming to see their usefulness, if only because Jo kept urging him to get one to make staying in contact easier. But he would never accept the so-called ‘smart’ ones as being anything other than artless, soulless, mind-numbing brainwashing machines. He unlocked the door to the shop and walked his bike inside. Everywhere you looked these days, you saw young people with their heads down, hunched over their devices, their thumbs tapping away at some Face-Space post or indecipherable text message -

Henry looked up, and, to his shock, that was exactly what he saw. Horatio was leaning against the counter, engrossed in what looked like Abe’s smartphone, thumbs moving furiously. It took him a good few seconds to even notice Henry’s presence; when he did, he had to blink a few times. “I thought you would be at work until five.”

“It  _ is _ five,” Henry said. “Five thirty-two, actually.”

“...Oh.” Horatio squinted at him, wincing a little. “My head feels awful…”

“That’s from the eye strain.” Bike forgotten, Henry crossed the room and took the phone from his hands, to a yelp of protest. “These things will ruin your vision. And look at your posture! How long have you been standing like that?!”

Horatio flinched, then scowled at him; it had evidently been an embarrassingly long time. “I was merely using the Google to bring myself up to date on technological developments and world history,” he said, subtly rolling his shoulders. “It’s staggering how much information can be reached through such an unassuming device. For instance, I just read that New Holland is now called ‘Australia,’ and in the year 1932 the government there was forced to take military action against a flock of flightless birds in what has been called ‘The Great Emu War.’”

Henry frowned slightly. “While fascinating, I'm afraid you’ll find that particular bit of information to be largely useless. As with most of the information on those ridiculous phones.”

“Indeed?” Horatio said, leaning back against the counter. “I am shook.”

Henry looked at him askance. “What?”

Horatio became thoughtful. “It is a may-may. Have you not heard of it? I was given to believe the expression was rather popular.”

Henry sighed. “Abe is the cause of this, isn’t he?” He glanced towards the upstairs. “He and I are going to have some words…”

“If I may speak in his defense,” Horatio said, “I believe he did make several attempts to retake the phone, but I was able to evade him until he tired and went upstairs to prepare supper.”

As if to verify the story, Henry’s nose picked up the scent of lasagna wafting from upstairs. The smell of the dish and its connections to fond memories softened his annoyance. He supposed it wouldn't really be so bad if Horatio took a liking to the smartphone, if only to avoid becoming a “hopeless technophobe” like himself. “Oh, alright. Frankly, I'm impressed by how quickly you’ve learned to operate this thing.”

Horatio shrugged, the gesture meant to be dismissive, but he looked fairly proud of himself. “I am not nearly at the level of understanding that I would like. Although paradoxically, taking Abe's advice and abandoning all hope of comprehension has made it easier to accept the device’s strange functions.”

Henry was suddenly reminded of what his coworkers had been bugging him about all day. “Speaking of strange functions, my work colleagues have pressed me into going drinking with them tonight. They extended the invitation to you, as well.”

“Me?” Horatio looked confused. “Why on earth…?”

“They are curious,” Henry said apologetically. “Particularly Detective Hanson, who you haven't met. Due to the necessity of keeping my immortality a secret, he and Lucas know almost nothing about my personal life. And being professional investigators, they tend to latch onto any clue they can get a hold of.”

Horatio shook his head. “Satisfying the curiosity of one’s subordinates is dangerous business. Any opening, no matter how small, is enough for the sufficiently determined to completely unravel even the coldest and most formidable of figures. One slip of the tongue, and next thing you know they're making banal chit-chat and actually expecting a response. A disastrous state of affairs.”

Henry chuckled. “Well, then it's too late for me, I suppose. Recently I haven't been able to find it in me to flat-out ignore Lucas.”

He’d been partly joking (as he still ignored Lucas on occasion), but he was a little surprised to realize from the look that greeted him that Horatio's statement had been completely serious. “I thought you wanted to keep your condition hidden from your colleagues,” the younger man said. “I fail to see how bringing me, a sailor from two hundred years ago with approximately…” he briefly checked the clock on the wall, “six hours’ worth of study on contemporary culture, to a social event with said colleagues could possibly help. There are far too many risks and not nearly enough benefits to justify the venture.”

“Well, I have made excuses for you,” Henry said. “I’ve told them that you’re a history enthusiast.”

“A bit flimsy, don’t you think?”

“You take your hobbies extremely seriously.” Henry quirked a smile. “Besides, I’ve found that the modern man will accept any non-supernatural explanation offered to him, regardless of its flimsiness, over anything that might seem to indicate the impossible. We’re now in a very skeptical age.”

Horatio looked at him curiously, eyebrow raised. “...It almost sounds like you are trying to persuade me to go.”

Henry blinked. “Oh, no, not at all. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’ve told them that.”

Horatio, for some reason, didn’t seem quite convinced, but he let the issue drop. “It may be an interesting opportunity to learn more about the modern world,” he mused. “Perhaps my terrible conversation and lack of wit will bore them all to death, and they’ll want to hear no more of me.”

The last part had been said matter-of-factly, without a trace of sarcasm. Henry was beginning to worry about his son’s self-esteem. Maybe a night out would be good for him. “Oh, nonsense,” he said. “Now, why don’t we go upstairs and see how supper is coming along? And you can return Abe’s phone to him.”

He handed the smartphone back to Horatio, who looked tempted to continue with his Googling. But he restrained himself and let the hand with the phone in it fall to his side. “Very well,” he said, heading for the stairs. “And I suppose I will go with you tonight.”

Henry smiled a little. “Lucas will be excited to see you again. As a fair warning, he’s most likely compiled a list of TV shows to shove down your throat. You just have to say you’ll watch them. The man’s desperate, so you don’t even have to sound sincere.”

Horatio paused on the stairs to turn around and look at him. “I still don’t know what a ‘TV’ is.”

“Ah.” Henry realized that he had slowly and almost unconsciously been warming up to the idea of the pub gathering as the day went on; the thought made him appreciate how far he'd come in his relationships with his colleagues, that he could actually look forward to something like this. But it was suddenly starting to feel like it might be a bad idea again. At any rate, it was too late to back out now.

Probably everything would be fine.


End file.
